The Unwanted Ones: Book One: Children of the Negaverse
by Celesteomallard
Summary: Jake Mallard set everything in motion when committed the crime that would breathe life into the masked menace known as Negaduck. But never could he have imagined the ripple effect of how many lives would begin, be irrevocably altered, and lost due to his actions, and the actions of those that followed him. This is the story of Negaduck, the Fearsome Five, and many more.
1. Chapter 1: The Meeting of Two Dark Minds

_Dedicated to my friends, Bloodyban, Disneypsycho, DeathbyMarshmallows, Mis Mal, Frothinglizard, Roamingtigress, Mouselady, and so many others who, along with Darkwing, saw me through the roughest points of my are always in my hearts. I own Cassidy, Celeste, Johan, Trixie, and a few other characters that will be mentioned as they appear in later chapters, but for the most part, the storyline I'm building off belongs to Bloodyban, Jake Mallard is hers, Jacob Mallard is Disneypsycho's, and all the cannon character are, ofcourse, Disney. If only I owned Negaduck, if only. Lol._

 **Warning: This is based on a cartoon, but the contents have no place in one. I realize within the next few paragraphs, I am very likely to outrage and offend probably the majority of readers because of one characters view on life. Please allow me to clarify first and foremost: Cassidy is mentally unstable. She believes in no God, she sees no good for the most part in her fellow man, and she has extremist views set in stone which she uses the flaws of others to defend, even when her own actions are cruel , violent, and indefensible. This is an unstable young woman who seeks the destruction of her own family, whom have done her no harm, even going so far as to cripple her own sister for life in an assassination attempt, because she sees herself as righteous and defender of justice and order as opposed to a world she sees as profaned with Choas.**

 **In short, please do not take a her views as a means to invoke a rant about women's rights, religion, politics, and so on. I will not defend her beliefs as being correct nor will I state that I entirely disagree with a few of them, but I am writing on behalf of a homicidal unstable character and expressing HER justifications, not my own, so please consider with a grain of salt, that, she is no more defensible than Joker from Batman. She world love nothing more than to burn the world to ashes and release them into the wind and would argue to her end that she was right to do so.**

 **Prologue :**

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schzophrnia-Unknown Author

Intercept from Bittersweet Poison: The Memoirs of One Cassidy Abigail Irene Vivian Quackenkov:

"I do believe, personally speaking, that orphans have, if not the most pleasant, certainly the most interesting lives. The best stories , the most heartfelt, intense, stirring tales, all center around orphans. I cite, for explain, the stories of the incredible Harry Potter, (or, Hairy Otter, as he is fondly known in the world I come from) the oh so clever siblings from A Series of Unfortunate Events, the ever unlucky Jon Snow and his half siblings of Song of Ice and Fire, imaginative Anne of Green Gables, the plucky young Lyra of His Dark Materials, Dick Grayson, better known by the charmingly colorful monicker of Robin and later Nightwing, and ofcourse, the ever cheerful and unflagging sweet Annie.

Those of us who experienced abusive or neglectful parenting may have felt some envious flickers towards the aforementioned individuals, not because we necessarily wish ill fates to befall our subpar parents, but because more than once, we long for a magical owl baring a gracious induction into a magical academy or the odd balding but genial millionaire to happen upon us, neither of which, I can assure you, has happened to ME as of yet...

And if it's happened to you, I might thank you to keep as much to yourself, as I am admittedly not above the deadly sin of envy.

Nor a number of other unpleasantries, and dare I admit it so boldly, much to my dismay, some illegal activities and the more than the odd tampering with a timeline or two. I also will confess to the outright attempt to destroy my overly jovial and surprisingly resilient sybling, as well as a profound disdain for my mother, father, and grandfather, all of whom, in my book, have committed such sins of chaotic idiocy they should be smacked soundly or worse, but taking into account their less that desirable pasts, as are chronicled here forth in the next several chapters of this rather sizable tomb, one is likely to be inclined to feel sympathy for them or excuse their choices and condemn my own.

I have no hard feelings as towards anyone who might feel so, as this recording is not for the sake of sympathy garnering. I require no comfort or condolences. Having never been one for affection, either desiring it nor offering it, it seems now in my last hours to expect any would be ludicrous and I'm fully well aware even in the most amicable of situations, I am not the most likable woman. I make no apologies, as such would be pointless even if I felt remorse.

That being said, anyone who does not desire to delve into a ponderous and mostly depressing take behind those infamous villains, the Fearsome Five, in particular Negaduck , and the buffoonish Quackerjack, as well as some names you may or may not be familiar with, those of Agent Jake Mallard, Celeste Mallard, Keleen Vanderchill, Nimbus Phoenix, Malicia McCawber, Ariana McCawber, and a number of lesser known individuals all taking part in this strange tale of unwanted children whose fates were interwoven through the meddling of bored deities, destiny, or whatever Powers That Be whom keep the worlds spinning, I encourage you to turn back now and seek out other entertainment focused on more well known personas such as the illusive Darkwing Duck, Morgana, and Gosalyn Mallard.

Are you still here? Then strap yourself in. This ride has a number of loops, twists, and turns not for the faint of heart or weak stomached. It contains accounts of violence, a fair share of despair, dashes of science fictional exploits, more than a hint of thrills and chills, but also a dose of romantic intrigue and small pinches of levity and triumph all mixed together in a steaming stew pot of adventure. But mostly, and most importantly, it's a story about orphans. Children who were abandoned, unwanted, or misunderstood in various ways, and to a lesser extent, their parents, and how they shaped the world I am about to introduce you to. It's not always a happy world, in most of its dimensions, but it is unquestionably an interesting one. And it all starts at the very end of all things, a man made apocalypse of sorts..."

 **A Secondary, Bitter, Hopeless Prologue and Chapter One: The Meeting of Two** **Dark** **Minds**

 _Cassidy was silent for a long time, staring out into the harbor. It was sunset. The final sunset **.** Slender hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of gray trench coat as if questing vainly for the answers there, as if somehow the deep and profound truths she sought might be tangled in a bit of lint and loose thread in one corner, trapped there from a tumble in the clothes dryer, before she replied at length in a hollow voice,"What do I want? I want you to push the button. Because even after all this, after every atrocity I've committed, after every life I've taken, I still can't bring myself to do it. I love this world too much."_

 _~Where is your God now, ye humbled masses? If He existed, would not He reach down and smight us, your so called wicked, before we can undo all He has done? All that was created in His image? Merely the fact we are standing here with the ability to bring upon the end of days, doesn't that prove His none existence?~ she smiled breifly, bitterly. It was a all too common expression on her aged but youthful face._

She refused to look at the man she was addressing, refused to acknowledge the finality of it all just yet, not while she could watch the headlights of the cars flowing across Audoban Bay Bridge, like fairies in a caravan to an unknown mysterious meeting place, all set against a crimson setting sun sinking into the bay. When had she become prone to flights of fantasy? She couldn't remember. She had always been the practical one, the cold, emotionless child who scorned fairy tales and secretly hoped the dragons would devour the foolish hero and the captive princess. The darkness had long ago consumed her soul, if she had ever had one, if she had believed such a thing as a soul truely existed. But now...just this minute...she felt an unfamiliar pang. When had this all started to feel so very wrong?

"Don't get me wrong, I hate it too. The Human race in particular. We're disgusting, how flawed and self-centered and utterly pathetic we are in our attempts to justify our existence. We murder, we rape, we slaughter other species into mass extinction for the sake of a fur coat or a pocket of oil at the bottom of the ocean, we rip unborn babies apart in the one place they should be safe and call it women's rights or health care, we kill young doctors on buses because they're female and out too late at night, we kill children's parents and force them to become soldiers...we test sonic weaponry with no regard for how it effects the animals it reaches, even when they lay stranded on a beach, blood pouring from their ruptured brains...we feed Mercury poisoned illegal meat to school children, and the atrocities we commit in the name of this deity, that deity, flying planes into buildings, sending toddlers out strapped to bombs...teenagers that stab puppies to death and men who spear wildlife and post it on virtual media for entertainment! we suck..."

Her accomplice allowed her to continue her monologue with his persistent silence. She supposed he felt there was time. This was the only time. After the button was pushed, there would be no time. Time would come crashing to a halt with screams and then silence. So for now, he allowed her her regrets. She wondered if he had any regrets. If he did, he wouldn't tell her, not even now. Though looking at the gold wedding band he still wore, even after all these years, the one tiny chink in his seemingly flawless armor, she thought, just maybe, his own regrets were the reason he was standing here now. Not that reasons mattered at this late point in the game. She swept a wayward lock of brown hair away from her face.

Then again, here she was, ranting about the injustice of crimes committed against the innocent to an individual who had tried kill his own child, HAD killed his own wife! The irony was not lost on her. ~All these centuries, parents have told their children to sleep well, that there are no monsters under the bed. But they all the lied. The monsters were living in plain sight, without bloodshot eyes, horns or devil tails, clad in the guises of loving housewife and dutiful husband, the average citizen on the street, each and every one of them, hiding a behind a mask more convincing that that of any vigilante, hiding dark intentions and darker desires.~

~The Monsters have always been real. We ARE the **_Monsters_**.~

"But the fact is, I can't kill a child, much less a million of them. I still love the sound of a newborn baby or a toddler laughing, the idea of a first kiss, the concept of devotion in marriage, these things I've never experienced but I still see the value in them and they're too beautiful for me to destroy, even though I see the truth, I see that the only way for the world to survive is for the Human race to perish. I see that the only way to spare the children being tortured and slaughtered is to put them all to rest as suddenly , as painlessly, as possible in a way no more can ever be, but I still can't do it, so I'm asking you to be stronger than I am in your mercy, in your conviction that we are a plague on ourselves and this world that must be crushed out. A virus. So be better than me, and do what I don't have the heart to. End it all. Push the button."

Slowly, she turned and placed one trembling hand over his steady one, her still youthful fingers feeling the calm in the aged veins and bones that were prominent there. His pulse was even. His face was blank, stone, one of the earliest memories she had was his face looking down on her with an expression much like this. Her life had come full circle in the least predictable of ways. Jake Mallard's ever cold ice green eyes locked with hers, and together they slowly increased pressure on the deceptively small trigger mechanism that would unleash Armageddon.

End Prologue

Chapter One:

 **Three years and a lifetime earlier**...

His morning had been going well, border line pleasant even, before she had walked into his office. The plaque on his cherry wood desk read Jake E. Mallard, Cheif Agent of S.H.U.S.H., but volumes could have been filled with what was left unsaid by that simple pronouncement. Failed father. Murderer. Wife killer. Refugee. Trained assassin. Former business owner. Insane.

The spacious office was reminiscent of one from his past, walls lined with file cabinets and book shelves, framing a single window embedded with state of the art one way mirrored glass that darkened in accordance to the brightness of the day outside, never allowing a view from outside in, nor too much cheery sunlight.

Spread out like a Playduck centerfold on his desk were the contents of a relatively small file entitled Swanson, T. , the most recent contents of which were a number of high quailty grayscale photos depicting a body on a chalk outline. He perused these with the air most men might reserve for family graduation photos, taking considerable pride in the fact that despite his age, he had never grown lazy or too content to indulge in wet work. Especially when it came to settling old scores. Infact, he had retained an almost artistic flare for the job, in his own not so humble opinion.

He looked up in surprise, shoving the photos into a nondescript manila folder on one side of his desk as a slender, curvatious fingure entered. His expression quickly shifted from one of annoyance at the interruption to a sly grin of appreciation as his gaze traced a pair of long slender legs from black stiletto heels up to a slit grey pencil skirt and matching business suit jacket over a white blouse, both revealing a hint of supple young cleavage. Her face was equally as pleasant as she stepped in and closed the door behind her, placing a steaming cup of hot black coffee on a coaster before him. Rich, robust, and only a hint of sugar.

Well, she may not have been bright enough to request permission before entering, and he was still puzzled as to why his secretary, Marge, hadn't buzzed him first...perhaps Marge was out on a sick day and this was one of her new assistants, still yet to be broke in? His eyes flicked from the cream colored plumage between her breasts to her blue eyes, tastefully outlined and accentuated with long darkened lashes. The color of her beak , a demure grey, and the faint darkening around her eyes, tan, were those make up, or natural? Oh well, he'd know soon enough, why spoil the surprise...he'd break her in in all sorts of ways...

"I don't think I've seen you before, my dear. Are you new, or transferred in from..." He started in his most suave and intoxicatingly, smooth tone, only to be unceremoniously cut off as she made a scoffing sound, and, to his amazement pulled the chair out opposite him and seated herself without as much as a byyourleave, if with a decided grace.

"MY **_GOD_** , you are stating _already_. Save Yourself some dignity, old man, and quit while you can salvage some of that bloated monsterity you call an ego. I'm not one of your "secretaries " or those doe eyed little novice agents that swoon the moment you a smile and offer them a glass of champagne," she countered in a surprisingly low but melodic voice.

Unexpected heat rushed to his face as he glared her vehemently. Quickly recovering himself, he snatched up a gilded pen from his desk to jot down damning information that would be the end of her short lived career. If she wasn't willing to make other, more preferable arrangements, that was. Jake Mallard was admittedly not beyond the thrill of breaking in a wild horse, particularly a fetching young filly half his age who he could introduce to a very literal crop. "What's your badge number, miss? I'm going to speak to your superior about your utter lack of respect."

"My badge number isn't registered with your system. Yet. I'm special operations, code name Wasp," she casually examined her nails, causing a long piece of bangs to fall coyly across her face. Her brunette hair was trimmed and styled shoulder length in the back, but for some reason, perhaps one of those new dangled up does he was unfamiliar with, the front of her hair one one side was long and swept to one side.

He tried to gauge her age, frowning. She almost looked fresh enough to be in her late teens, but that was impossible. So was her statement. "My systems are always kept up to date, _Wasp_...I demand the name of your commanding officer."

"Oh, well, in that case..." She reached over and tugged on the drawstring, closing the blinds on his single window completely before she met his eyes."I work directly under you. Both myself and my partner, Viper. But I'm getting ahead of myself, let me further embarrass you by stating its absolutely sickening that a man of your advanced age...you're what, _65_ _now_? Would presume he could use his honeyed to use and powerful position to lure little ole _19_ year old me into your dragons lair. For shame, _Gramps_."

"I'm 55, I'll have you know, "Jake sneered at her mock shaming, growing rapidly tired of whatever game she was playing. The prospect of breaking her spirit was quickly becoming rivaled by his annoyance, and her apparent lack of intelligence. She was either a very bad liar or suffered from lack of any credible information sources, both which made her useless to him. Also, reminding him of his age, whether he would admit it or not, was a sore spot, though he was in superb shape, able to compete with most of the agents in their twenties. "You're NOT 19. No teenager would ever make it past our security clearance..."

"She _would_ if she were a true, fully trained, certified Agent, a progeny who graduated high school at 12, graduate school at 16, and had extensive weapons and combat training from the age of 6...oh, and I used YOUR documentation forger, you remember, the one you used to get your job here to begin with?"

Although his face betrayed no hint of his shock, he calmly slid one hand almond the underside of his desk to the discreet little button hidden there next to the intercom call button wired to his secretaries desk ,"I'm going to have security remove you from the premise, and I'm pressing charges for tresspassing on government property. When I'm done with you, you'll be older than I am now before you're eligible for parole..."

He froze as a cold, familiar shape pressed uncomfortably into a very private area. No, it couldn't be. "There's no way you got a gun in here, past our security system. Our metal detectors and scanners are state of the art." He felt sweat creep down the side of his collar, dampening his pristine white plumage. His expression, however, was set in iron.

She tilted her head to one side, foreigning curiousity, pressing the weapon more soundly against its target. He refused to give her the satisfaction of flinching. " Tell me, is it still the Astra or have you finally upgraded to the Browning Hi-power. You always did perfer the German based weaponry. Me, myself, and I , we're more interested in the future. I guess that makes this entire mission a bit..ironic, really. What you currently have caressing old family jewels there is infact, a 3D printer based model known as the Liberator .380. I call her Libby for short. She's mostly composed of a high grade plastic resin and silicone compound. Only the firing pin and the ammunition are metal, less content than your average wrist watch or jewelry, very unlikely to set off even the most precise of metal detectors at this day image..although technically, it's a violation of the Concealed Weaponry Act...oh well, you can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs, as they say..."

Jake had had enough. His temper was flaring beyond his self control as he gritted out, " If you think you can just waltz in here and shoot the Cheif agent of S.H.U.S.H. in his own office, then waltz back out unharmed, you must be insane."

A startled look eclipsed her face and her free hand flew to her breast as if aggregiously and unfairly wounded by his implication. "Shoot you? I would never want to shoot YOU, that would defeat the entire point of me being here! Granted, as much as you love to sow those wild apple seeds , I can see how you would be concerned, but this is just a precaution. Once you understand who I am and why I'm here, there's no need for any violence between us, especially since my entire purpose, is to help you get exactly what you want!"

At first, he'd taken her for a F.O.W.L. Operative. Now he knew what he was dealing with was far worse. "You're insane."

she threw back her head and laughed. It was far from a joyous sound. Far the opposite, it had a chilling factor to it. She sniffed and wiped away a fake tear." Well they do say it runs in families. My father is. My mother may have been, who knows. My sister CERTAINLY is that, and dense to boot, and my grandfather, well, he's a certified homicidal maniac. My great grandfather on the other hand.." She smiled at him knowingly then suddenly scooped up the folder off his desk with her free hand, flipping through the photos calmly before he could protest, " My great grandfather has his little...flights of instability. My my my. Poor Todd Swanson. He was never even remotely connected with Mallard Industries in this universe, you know? Well, ofcourse you knew that. He had no connection to the merger that stole your business back in the Negaverse. I can't imagine what satisfaction killing his double here really brought you, but I suppose it still feels like revenge, doesn't it? You really should learn to let things go..."

Her azure gaze flicked to the golden wedding band on is finger. "But that's highly unlikely. I'm surprised you don't have the briefcase she gave you for your fifth wedding anniversary. Though it would have been difficult to flee a murder scene carrying a heavy leather briefcase, especially when your hands were bruised after beating your wife and nearly you son to death. And for the record, yes, I know your son is Negaduck."

Jake stared at this demon, this horribly knowledgable nightmare disguised as a young woman before him, half convinced he was dreaming, or maybe that the Devil had finally emerged in the flesh to lay claim to his soul. Hadn't the Bible described the Devil as being an angel, beautiful beyond all comparison? Surely this wicked apparition before him fit such a description. Even now as she withdrew the weapon from its undesirable place in his genitals and casually dragged the tip of the barrel between her cleavage, he felt temptation stir in him. The Devil come to collect her dues. No he refused to believe in superstitions. "How.." He croaked out, trying to find his voice.

"How do I know all I know?" She stretched luxuriously, tucking her firearm back in a thigh holster before settling in like a contented cat with a captive canary to disembowel at her leisure. " It's a very long story, but you have an open schedule today. And this office is entirely soundproof, so I'll explain. Let me start with the basics though. I'm here to help you eradicate the forces that stand against you: Jacob Mallard, Ava Moore, and most importantly, Negaduck and those closely associated with him. My name is Cassidy. Agent Cassidy Mallard. I'm from the future. Your future. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. Wait until we hit the Titanic..."


	2. Chapter 2: The Path He Didn't Choose

**Chapter Two: The Path He Didn't Choose**

 _Jake Mallard: ...I didn't force you to choose this path._

 _Negaduck: You were enough of an influence_.

 _~Path of Concequences, Chapter 16, by Bloodyban_

life is made up of choices.

Yes or no.

In or out.

Up or down.

And then there are the choices that matter

To love or hate.

To be a hero or to be a coward.

To fight or to give in.

To live or die.

Author's Note: Jake Mallard , Mallard Industries, Abigail Mallard, The Cleeson family, etc. are all C Bloodyban, as is the backstory of how Negaduck came to be orphaned which is described in much better detail in the fantastic story, Path of Concequences, which I read several times over while writing this chapter and would highly recommend you read it yourself or you're missing out. And probably very lost. Like...totally lost with all the references to it that I'm giving in this fic. Just go read it please? Pretty please?Beth/Liza Webfoot C. Zebrakas. Marty /Martina Mcfly C. DeathbyMarshmallows . Drake Mallard/ Negaduck, the McCawbers, The Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice Bakery, The Negaverse, Gandra Dee, and Launchpad McQuack are all C Disney, as is Fenton Crackshell. His Negaverse alter ego Felton Blackshell, is an idea I've been playing with but he's based off Fenton and I stake no claim to him or his Ma. The character of Piper Sand is mine. Lol. Enjoy and please review?

Intercept from Bittersweet Poison: The Memoirs of one Cassidy Abigail Irene Vivian Quackenkov

"Those of you who may wonder if I am the most reliable of narrators wonder rightly, as history has a way of becoming convoluted with time, telling and point of view all playing their part to twist things.

For example, it has recently been discovered that Napoleon Bonaparte , often portrayed of a comical and stunted stature and baring a most unseemly temper , was likely not so short as he has been iconically portrayed, and this misunderstanding has been perpetuated by myth and translation error from French to English.

The myth that the arguably greatest tactical mind in the history of France was of a less than imposing stature stems primarily from the fact that he is listed as 5 feet 2 inches tall at the time of his death. However, this is 5 feet 2 inches in French units. In modern international units, he was just shy of 5 feet 7 inches. Perhaps some of you will scoff and remark that this is a minute adjustment, and it is true that by our modern day standards in certain places in the world, such as the United States this is still considers lacking in height, leading to the title "Napolean Complex" or "Short Mans Syndrome" being a common enough cultural burn directed at males who feel the need to compensate for their physical lacking. However, at the time Napolean lived in France, the average height for an adult male was about 5 feet 5 inches in modern international units. So in fact, he was quite tall for his day.

regardles, I have found it is unwise to judge a book by its cover, or more procisely, to judge how much of an impact a man can have on the world based upon an inconsequential factor such as his height. Certainly, Negaduck effected his own home universe in ways his parents couldn't have imagined, and the same could be said for Darkwing'suniverse as well.

I chose Napoleon as an example, because my grandfather, for reasons you will soon come to understand, was quite fond of the story of Napoleon and Josephine, the marriage of whom, despite its legendary retelling, was not well received by Napoléon's family, whom were immensely shocked that he had chosen to marry an older widow with two children. His mother and sisters , spiteful cows that they were, were especially resentful of Joséphine as they felt clumsy and unsophisticated in her presence.

A mere two days following the wedding, Bonaparte departed to lead the French army in Italy. During the immensely painful (at least on the violative Napoleon's part) seperation, he sent her numerous poetic and ravishing love letters. In February 1797, to intercept for one such notice, he wrote: "You to whom nature has given spirit, sweetness, and beauty, you who alone can move and rule my heart, you who know all too well the absolute empire you exercise over it!"

Taking notes this into account, it is little wonder a humble book report on the tragic lovers sparked the ill fated and relatively short lived romance between my grandfather and his high school sweetheart, a Miss Piper Sands.

You will have to judge, yourselves, whether what followed was merely a matter of poor luck, bad judgement, or predestination. I reserve my own opinions on the matter for a later point, beings as I have much experience with loss, but little in the matters of romance and emotions, luxuries I have never afforded myself.

On a further side note, should you feel inclined to pay your respects to the gravesite of my late Great Grandmother, Abigail Cleeson Mallard, she is still resting at the Westwood Village Memorial Cemetery. And she has since garnered much company. My grandfather, Negaduck, made sure of that."

 **A couple decades ago, and one whole alternate universe away..the Negaverse, to be precise**...

Just another day in the life of Drake Mallard, 15 years old, going on 16. In the realm of St. Canard Senior High School, Drake fell squarely in the middle, not good enough grades to be classified a nerd, though decent looking, not anywhere big enough to be a jock, though life had dealt him a series of bad hands, not yet mean enough to be a bully. He didn't have many friends, none, in fact. He was ostracized, a former rich boy, now reduced to a ward of the state by powers that be, far beyond his control. People were always telling him, hey, look on the bright side, don't be so negative. Yet he wore his isolation like a badge. They were the real losers, someday, he was going to be someone wielding great power, maybe power over the entire city, while they spent their lives flipping burgers. Or so he told himself, especially on days like this.

So thus we first found Drake Mallard, on this late Friday afternoon following final period and gym class, with his sizable bill squashed against one dirty window in a grimace before he was hauled backwards. A fist entered his line of sight, at the end of a right hook.

KThough Drake's reflexes were good , getting better every day, being the veteran, if not the winner often, due to his short stature, of numerous brawls at this stage in his young life, the punch connected, his head snapped back and his blue eyes rolled, blood spilling from his split lip as a second fist, this one covered in punch rings like the first one, but a left hook, uppercut him and he crumpled to the pavement, staring up at the cloudy sky. Yep, just another beautiful St. Canard day.

Three high school punks continued to kick him in the back, stomach, and kidneys. He congratulated himself that his bladder was still maintaining integrity. Their leader was barely taller than him, but more on the popular side, 16 year old Felton Blackshell, and to his right, tall, muscular, with the body of a twenty five year old was... The one he'd pissed off. The one with the weird name. His whole family had weird names, and they were all equally hostile and psycho, some sort of biker gang. What was it? Oh, yeah, McQuack.

"You do _Not talk ta her_ , how many times I gotta tell ya that!? Do you _listen_ when I _talk_? Hey, Drake the Dweeb, I asked you a question, you listening ta me, State Kid? Do you listen when I'm talking ta you, or are you deaf ear something?!" McQuack demanded.

Drake was a smart ass, one thing he'd developed over time was a mouth that sometimes out sped his brain, so he couldn't resist replying with, " Huh? Sorry, I wasn't listening..."

It took a moment for this to fully sink in and an enraged Launchpad McQuack hauled Drake to his feet and punched him in the ribs. Drake groaned. " Next time you cross me, yer gonna pay, smart guy, you're gonna pay big..."

"Gee, I don't carry cash on me, will you accept Visa or MasterCard ?" Drake quipped, earning laughs from Felton and Hamm, the other two , it also earned a trash can being hefted in a menacing way by Launchpad who seemed ready to bring it down on Drake's head.

"Leave him alone, Launchpad!" A female voice stopped him, drawing their attention. Not Liza Webfoot, or Martina Mcfly, whom the fight had started over ( sheesh, all he'd ask was if he could borrow a pencil!) or Gandra Dee, all of whom had been watching the beat down with amusement, but instead, a petite avian of the coastal waterfowl variety , dressed in bell bottoms and a modest denim jacket, stood in the center of the hall.

Though normally quiet and withdrawn, this flare of defiance snared all the young mens' attention to the modestly pretty girl. Drake, who had been captivated by the shy beauty who sat across from him in History class, was humiliated by being caught in this position.

"Yeah, or what, you gonna go tell the principle on me, Dollface?" McQuack laughed oafishly.

"No, I'll tell the security officer ...and I'll tell him you're the one that broke into Elmo Sputterspark's locker and took his pain medication after he broke his leg last week, " Piper Sand stated boldly, hoping the bullies didn't catch how her voice shook.

"Snitch..." Gandra muttered as a frustrated Launchpad settled for upending the trashcan over Drake's throbbing head before he chucked it aside and stalked out, leaving the young mallard covered in garbage.

Drake cursed and peeled a half eaten sandwich off his jacket sleeve as the rest of the popular crowd filed out, leaving him alone with a lingering Piper. " I had that handled you know, I don't need some dame jumping in to save my..." He looked up and sighed, his shoulders heaving in defeat as he watched her retreat down the hall and vanish out the west exit. "...tail feathers."

Perfect. The first time he'd actually spoken to her and he'd come off sounding no better than McQuack or Blackshell. And to make things even more peachy keen, once glance at his watch told him he was about to be late for his after school job. He cursed under his breath.

Being underage, Drake's choices for after school employment was limited. The Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice Bakery had not been his first choice, but Roman McCawber, who ran this establishment, supplying St. Canard with high quality confectionary delights and even higher priced overly sweetened teas, had decided to take a chance on a down and out young duck who was a ward of the State trying to better himself, and given him the position of Delivery Boy. He was already late, having stopped to shower in the boys locker room and clean himself up a bit before coming in.

The Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice Bakery itself was a picturesque building with a small garden full of sunflowers, pansies, and sweet peas out front. The store was designed to resemble a Gingerbread House, which was fitting, as the main shopkeeper and cashier most customers dealt with was Janice McCawber, who, in Drakes opinion, could be a real witch. Most of the time she maintained a pristine and refined demeanor, not single blond hair of her up do out of place. She was perfectionist, as the massive a multi-layered cakes in the front window and the back store room could testify to. But sometimes, like when her blood sugar was running low, according to her husband, Nero, (a portly purple pig whom helped himself to the Danishes rather frequently) Drake swore she almost seemed to switch faces completely.

Luckily for him today, Janice was out on a supply run, meaning he was working mostly with Roman, a tall duck with dark turquoise feathers , a few clingy strands of black hair, and a low hanging beak. As usual, he wore a fine suit that was covered with a clean apron . He seemed out of place in a cheery bakery, what with his deep voice and somber demeanor. He had once told Drake the bakery was a second attempt at a business, bought out from the original owners after the McCawber's first family business, McCawber Mushrooms Unlimited, had gone under due to differences of opinion in management with another relative, but had never expanded on the explaination, and Drake had never asked. He didn't really care.

Likewise, Roman didn't comment about his torn clothes, busted lip, or blackening eye. It wasn't the first time he'd come in roughed up. He was handed two boxes and a slip with an address then sent on his way.

He got a decent sum for spending his afternoons after school delivering pies and cakes to the already overweight St. Canardians, and as a bonus, he took his evening meal at the bakery, usually something too sweet for his taste, but a far shot better than the fare at the orphanage. Also, Nero had found a second hand ten speed bicycle for Drake to use, which was ofcourse kept at the shop, but made him feel almost like a normal teenager some days when he was riding it.

As the wind whooshed by him, combing through his feathers, sometimes he could close his eyes and feel like he was flying. Sometimes he could picture how much better his life would be when he was out of school, in an apartment of his own with a REAL job, and maybe a girlfriend too. Like pretty Piper Sand, with her big golden eyes and her long dark hair tied up in a ponytail...and that smile...that smile that almost made him forget...

Blood splattered across his vision, marring it. So much blood. Blood running down the corner of the coffee table, drenching the living room floor carpet. Blood soaking once beautiful hair, making it impossible to guess the golden sunset color it had once been...

Drake slammed both his feet down on the ground, his heart pounding as he brought the bike to such an abrupt stop the two pies he had strapped to the back nearly came free. Every night, he relived that horror in his dreams. Every night he saw his father, his eyes those of a mad man as he rained blows down on his mother screaming at her. "Abigail! Don't walk away from me, Abigail! Get back here, you're not going anywhere!" In the nightmares, Jake Mallards voice was deeper than his son remembered it. It rumbled, it shook the Earth, and when he spoke he spat flames like the demon he'd suddenly been possessed by. Over the years, Drake had learned that demon had a name: alcohol, and there was no supernatural power in it, it didn't transform the man he'd known into a fierce, unstoppable monster as he'd once believed when he was eight. No, all it did was unmask what had been there all along: A coward who took his own failures and the topple of his once grand empire out on the only ones who had ever loved him.

When he was awake, Drake knew this. When he was awake, he thought of countless ways to kill his father if he ever crossed his path again. He thought of slow, torturous ways to end the worthless life of a man who was now seven older, seven years weaker from being on the run, a gutless murderer who destroyed his family and destroyed Drake's life. But in his sleep...

In his sleep, he could hear the rumble of the dragon his father had become, echoing through the walls of their once peaceful suburban home. "No one leaves me! I said you're not going anywhere, you belong to **ME**!"

In the dreams he never crept down the stairs and peered through the banisters like a frightened little mouse, he rushed to the rescue, taking them two at time, but the air itself was thick, working against him, holding him back, and no matter how much he thought each time, this time I'll make it, this time I'll save her, he was always too slow. He was always just fast enough to see his father crouched like an unholy gremlin feeding off his mother's fleeting life force as it fled her delicate , crumpled form.

As had happened in real life, he flung himself onto his father's back, sometime crying out "Dad, **NO**! _Don't_!" Sometimes, begging "Leave her alone!" Other times with threats and expletives, any vicious insult he could think of as he beat in vain at Jake's broad back with his tiny fists. In the nightmares, his father effortlessly shrugged him off, no matter how hard he clung to him, and the knife left more than a shallow cut on his forearm. It sank into his chest, or his stomach. Instead of dragging him into the kitchen, he felt him draw the knife out and sink it in over and over again, opening up countless wounds that burned like fire. He tried to defend himself, to cover his face, but all he could do was cry out as his blood mingled with his mother's.

Abigail's voice reached him from somewhere far away, pleading, " Jake, stop this! Leave him alone! _PLEASE_!"

He tried to fight his way back to conciousness, to tell her to leave him and save herself, please, just run away.. But he was always to weak to speak, more than to choke out " Mommy..." As his demon father , the serpent from the Garden of Eden, leaned in close, his eyes glowing of hellfire, his breath stinking of brimstone as he hissed, "Now, you watch this, alright, kiddo? I'm gonna show you how to permanently deal with a problem.."

The merciless beating that had killed his mother had been unspeakable to witness. But in his nightmares, it stretched on forever. In his nightmares, sometimes his father took the kitchen knife, pulled his mother's head back by her once golden curls now matted with gore and slit her throat inches from Drake's face so that her last life's blood spilled down over her cross pendant in a mockery of the crucifixion.

Drake felt in his pocket, fumbling for the familiar shape of the cross. After he'd regained consciousness several days later in the hospital, after the murder investigation had been closed, one detective, a big burly fox who had worked the case and frequently visited him in the children's ward of the hospital after taking his statement, had taken it from the evidence locker and brought it to him at the orphanage, the one kind thing anyone had done for him. He still remembered the somber look in his face as he'd knelt before the tearful boy and held it out to him in one massive paw. "I'm so sorry you couldn't go to the funeral, Drakey. But you should have this. Julia, your father's former assistant at Mallard Enterprises, she said your mom always wore it. Keep it safe, close to your heart, and you'll always have a part of her with you."

Drake had stared at the cross silently, fat tears sliding down his bill onto his dirty shirt as he clenched his shaking hand around it. He had tried to be brave, brave like his mother had always been, but somehow the tears escaping as he listened to the officer. "You have to be tough now, okay? Like your mom was. Drake, I don't want you to worry...about your father. We haven't caught him yet, but we won't stop looking. We have testimonies from Julia, the woman next door, Sylvia..she's the one who found you and called the police, remember? And Mr. Swanson, Mr. Flannery, you're Grandma Claire..."

"You said she was going to come get me so I wouldn't have to stay here. When is she Grandma Claire going to come get me?" Drake had suddenly demanded, not liking how the police office had shifted uncomfortably," I don't like it here. The kids pick on me, they call me "Rich Kid" even though my family hasn't been rich for a long time, they steal my stuff and break it..."

"Drake...your Grandma Claire isn't coming to get you. After the funeral she went home to get her house ready for you while you were still in the hospital, but on the way back, while she was driving she was hit by a drunk driver. Do you understand?"

Drake had swallowed hard, staring off into the distance, squeezing the cross in his hand so tightly it cut into his palm and started to bleed,"Yeah. I get it. She's dead too. Like my mom. Like Grandma Jeannine. They're all dead. Like I hope he is somewhere in a ditch..." His eyes had hardened beyond his years with hatred.

The officer, Detective Flexia, had blinked in surprise then sighed and put his hand on his shoulder, "If he's still out there, son, we'll get him. He's got a life sentience and a jail cell waiting for him as soon as he surfaces, there's no need to be afraid..."

"I'm not afraid of HIM!" Drake had spat, his eyes blazing as his attention snapped back to the big dog fox. " He should be afraid of **me** , because I **hope** he finds me. If he finds me _, I'm gonna kill him_."

He had meant it, too. At some point, he had stopped hoping his father was dead. If the old man were to die, it would be by his hand and his alone. And then one day, his prayers, if you could call such dark thoughts that, had been answered. He had been 10, stationed at his usual hiding spot from the other children by the orphanage fence at the edge of the playground, crouched and scowling on the pavement, watching the others in their carefree play when a black BMW stopped at the red light on the neighboring street. The driver turned his head to watch the children playing ball and Drake had nearly dismissed him as one of the random pedophiles known to troll the area, but then...then their eyes had met.

All of a sudden, his heart had choked to a stop, clenched by an icy hand in his chest. The breath went out of him. Those cold green eyes. Looking at him, peering straight into his soul. The light had turned green then, and his father had looked away, peeling out of the area. Drake had watched for him every day since for months, but he hadn't come back. It took him nearly three weeks before he could sleep through the night again. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he'd believed that to give into sleep would mean he'd awaken with the demon of his childhood crouched over him one night like the angel of death, back to finish the job he'd left undone. It never happened, and as the years wore on, he was ever vigilant for his father's return, but less convinced the old man would seek him out. No, it would be the other way around, and when it happened, it would be the end of Jake Mallard.

In the present, Drake jerked back to reality as a car honked at him, swerving to miss him in the middle of the road. He had to make his deliveries, take the bike back to the bakery, and be back at the orphanage before dark or he'd be in serious trouble. But before he headed back to the orphanage, he had to finish his daily ritual and return the cross to its rightful place.

The orphanage was full of thieves, and something as nice as a shiny golden cross necklace with a real deep blue star sapphire set in the core wouldn't have lasted long. Drake was no dummy, he knew taking his mother's necklace to the orphanage was setting himself up for it to be stolen and pawned. His mother's family, the Cleeson's had not been a rich brood. But the necklace was true 24k solid gold, not plated, a high school graduation gift from his Grandma Claire to his mother.

When Mallard Enterprises had been sold out to Swanson Incorporated, it was all they could do to keep a roof over their heads with his mother taking odd jobs singing at weddings and lounges. The luxuries of car and life insurance had flown the coop. Therefore it had taken all his Grandmothers savings to give her only daughter a proper burial, in Silent Hills Cemetery under an aged lilac tree that bloomed purple and lush in the Spring time. Immediately after the detective had left, Drake had escaped from the orphanage for the first time and hidden the cross necklace in one of the trees deep knot holes directly over his mother's tombstone. Every morning before school he visited the graveyard, retrieved the necklace and either tucked it under his shirt around his neck, or stuffed it in his pocket to carry with him, returning it every evening after school or work.

He crouched down, plucking a few stray weeds from the gravesite as he tucked the necklace into its safe keeping place, before he sat on a fallen log and brushed his hand slowly, lovingly over the words engraved into the thick stone. Abigail Marie Cleeson's Mallard. 1940- 1970 Beloved Daughter. Loving Mother. She is clothed with strength & dignity and laughs without fear of the future. Proverbs 31:25

"I miss you, Mom...miss you every day..."

" _Drake_?"

He leapt to his feet, so startled that for a moment he almost believed the soft female voice had come from the tombstone itself until he felt a hand brush his shoulder and whirled, fists up. He girl let out a startled cry and fell back, her forearm up to shield her face as he slowly lowered his fists, confused. " _Piper_ ?"

"I'm so sorry..." She stammered, trying to get up, then blinked and accepted the hand he offered, letting him pull her to her feet and steady her on the uneven ground.

"No, I mean, you just..startled me is all..." He replied, still bewildered, "I...what are you doing here?"

"I..." She gestured faintly with one hand that he saw was holding a bouquet of fresh wild flowers, mostly big gerber daisies. She pointed to a modest stone a few spaces away. " I come here every Friday to put flowers on my mother's grave...sometimes I sit and talk to her a bit. I mean, not to her, to the ...well, I mean I feel like I'm talking to her but I know she isn't really...here...its just a rock...but it makes me feel..a bit better, you know?" She stammered, twirling a loose lock of brunette hair around one finger, her gaze meeting his then darting away repeatedly like a butterfly flitting from one blossom to the next.

He nodded slowly, mesmerized by the deep tawny gold of her eyes, "Yeah. I get it."

" I just...I wanted to say I was sorry...about butting in today. Those guys, they're real jerks. But I didn't mean to embarrass you like you needed my help, or anything..."

"It's no big deal, they're just a bunch of knobs." He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, "You just saved me the trouble of thrashing them. McQuack got all bent out of shape because my pencil broke and I asked his dumb girlfriend to borrow one. Like I'd ever be interested in her. Anyone he dates isn't worth a box of rocks.." He trailed off.

For a long awkward moment they studied the grass and the sun starting to set. It caught some of the highlights in her hair and seemed to set them on fire. She broke the silence first, thinking she was making him uncomfortable "It's getting dark, I should get home, I'm gonna be in a heap of trouble... Eep!" As she turned to start down the hill, her sneaker found a wet patch of grass which led to her feet promptly flying out from under her.

"Watch it!" Drake exclaimed, flinging his arms out as she toppled backward into him, catching her. For a moment he thought he might go down himself before he regained balance. Only then did he notice their position, his arms firmly hooked under hers around her slender waist, just below her bust line. He hands were resting on top of his, her shoulders against his chest, and when she turned to look at him, her beak nearly bumped his bill, causing a pinkish tint flood her cheeks, and felt his own face flushing, but unwilling to pull away just yet. She smelled like ocean breeze and sandalwood.

From this close he could truly admire the intricate markings of her plumage, which was phasing between Winter and Spring, predominantly a dark sooty grey and white now developing rich reddish markings that crept down her throat. A small white patch above and behind the eyes..such eyes...he cleared his throat and helped her steady herself.

"I shouldn't have bothered you."

"You didn't," he disagreed quickly, " I...come here a lot to visit my mother too. She...passed on when I was eight." He couldn't bring himself to tell her how Abigail has been murdered. She'd probably heard the rumors from girls like Gandra Dee and Liza Webfoot anyway. He didn't want her to pity him, or worse, wonder what might be wrong with him to have come from a father capable of such atrocities. Like all the psychologists and therapists he'd been dragged to as a child, slapping labels like anti social personality disorder, depression, and post traumatic stress disorder on him.

She nodded, seeming genuinely sorry for his loss, but instead of saying as much, rearranged the flowers on her mother's grave slightly, "Mine died when I was six. It gets a little better with time. That's what they tell me anyway. I think it's all bull though..." She flushed at her brashness and he grinned widely at the slip in her politeness. "I'll see you on Monday?" She asked, smiling at his expression.

"I don't have anywhere better to be," he replied casually, watching her go, waving back when she waved at the gate. For once, the punishments for being late was going to be well worth it, and what's more, he was kind of looking forward to Monday.

That night as he fell asleep he pressed his bill into his pillow and imagined instead he his arms were around her waist again, and his face was buried in her dark hair, smelling sandalwood and ocean breeze.

Monday rolled around, as it always does, whether you're enjoying the weekend or not, Drake hadn't particularly per say, enjoyed his weekend, but he did return to high school with a sense of ...unease. Butterflies in the stomach, one could say. He half expected Piper to ignore him, to pretend their brief interlude in the graveyard had never occurred. He could have accepted it easily enough.

What he wasn't prepared for after dragging himself through algebra, which he suffered through in somewhat of a dazed stupor, absorbing little to none of the equations he was presented, was to have her flag him down with a small nervous wave as he entered history class.

"We're supposed to partner up and do research for a presentation on the French Revolution, do you want to, you know...work together...?"

"Yes," he blurted out abruptly, a bit too quickly, then cleared his throat and gave a casual, unconvincing shrug,"I mean, yeah, sure, I don't really care but if you want to..." His voice had started to drop again recently. It had already lost its preadolescent squeak of the 12 year old era, but lately it was shifting into an even lower, almost gravely pitch that fluctuated at random. He had to focus to keep it even, and sometimes even then it came out as an unexpected growl.

She smiled, pushing a lock of hair back as she flipped to a page in the middle of the book,"I thought maybe we could work on a report about Napoleon and Josephine. They have such a rich, intense story. You know, his family never really liked her, she carried herself with such presence that she always made his mother and sisters feel awkward..."

"All I know about Napoleon is that he was short," Drake scoffed with a roll of his eyes. He himself was just a touch on the sensitive side about his slightly stunted height, having never reached that of his father. It had lead to him being forcibly compacted into one too many lockers over the years.

To his confusion she broke into a sparkling laugh like a wind-chime in the breeze. Instinctively, he wanted to be offended by her laughing at him, but the smile she awarded him cooled his temper just as it started to boil and he realized she wasn't mocking him, but rather thought he had made a witty joke. It was taking a bit of effort to get used to not throwing his guard up all the time.

"Well, I'm a bit of a history geek, especially when the history involves tragic romances, so I could fill you in on what I know, if you like? " she tilted her head, still smiling, and he nodded vaguely, his brain sputtering out in a "duh" moment as his eyes locked with hers. The next hour was a bit of a blur , but astonishingly, later Drake found he actually remembered every word she'd said and was able to put together his half of the report with very little difficulty.

The rest of the school year went by in the form of a colorful flowing montage of study dates, walks home through a cascade of bright fall leaves that crunched underfoot, followed by a brisk snowfall that left the world a clean slate of winter white.

Often, people talked when they saw them together, girls gossiped and tittered, and boys shot bane full glares at Drake and muttered insults meant to be heard, but he took less and less notice. His grades and demeanor improved steadily. He got into less fights, even when provoked by the likes of McQuack or Blackshell.

He still visited his mother's grave frequently, often weeding it and placing fresh wild grown flowers on it as he talked to his mother about Piper, about how she made him feel lighter and freer that he had in years and how he hadn't believed he could feel this way anymore, not after what he'd seen and been through.

Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure what any of this even meant. They held hands, true, and sometimes the feeling of her delicate fingers woven between his was enough to make his stomach twist up in not entirely unpleasant knots . They ate picnic lunches together when the weather permitted had lunch at her home under the watchful eye of her father when it didn't . He was never sure if the man liked him or not, but he was always polite as Abigail would have expected him to be.

Still, they had never kissed. Not even close. Oh, he wanted to, he really did, but he was just positive he'd mess it up. So even as the weeks passed and the tender comfortable silent moments grew more frequent, he always walked her to her door and said goodnight, but that was the extent of it, and truth be told, deep down, he was worried that if he dared to cross that bridge, he'd lose her the had his mother.

He found that it felt cleansing to open up and talk about his mother, though he skirted offering a more detailed account of the night she'd been murdered stubbornly, and Piper never pushed him to speak of it, seeming to sense that he would open up in his own time. She was simply pleased that he trusted her enough to share with her the sacred memories of the woman who had been so precious to him.

Her father was a professional musician, as it turned out, long haired and generous of spirit, who kept a room filled with instruments, and lived on the beliefs of karma and that music in most any form was far greater soothing medicine for the damaged soul than any amount of prescribed counciling. Thus quite frequently he encouraged Drake and Piper to spend time in the small study/studio. Drake suspected this was a congenial way of avoiding stating that no boys were now or would ever be allowed in his daughters bedroom, but he was just fine with it, and after one or two occasions ended up admitting that his mother had also been a strong believer in music and the variety of principles it taught.

"Mostly, she was a piano enthusiast," he remarked running his fingers almost reverently down the scale of ivory keys of the Sands' grand piano, envoking pleasant images in his minds eye of Abigail bent over a similar instrument, her golden hair gleaming in the afternoon sun as she played one of her favorite hymns. Sometimes it brought up flares of regret as well, recalling how his mother had had to coax him to continue his practice, how he had never appreciated the pure magic of music she had wanted to pass down to him. "She sang too. Like an angel. When I was young, she used to love to sing at nightclubs and weddings. After my father lost the company, we depended on those gigs to pay the rent, put supper on the table, and all the joy seemed to go out of it for her. She got stuck taking chump change gigs...kids birthday parties and funerals...it changed her..." Remembering his mother's voice, the bliss on her face when she opened up and let her soul fly in song, he felt the acidic sting of tears in the back of his eye and rubbed at them roughly.

"Do you still play?" Piper asked, studying his solemn face. Her expression held no judgement, only acceptance and tenderness. He liked the warm feeling of her slender finger tips, resting on the back of his on top of the keys.

"Not for a long time. It's all up here...the piano lessons. The singing lessons," he tapped the side of his head then sat down, straddling a chair to face her, absently strumming a small nearby guitars cords,"..Guitar lessons, a bit of the French horn, but I quit that pretty quickly. I liked the guitar best. Mom wanted me to be well rounded though."

"Dad says that too. I've played a little of everything her, but my favorite..." She eased a long, large case out from one dusty corner, unsnapping it, and produced a cello. The neck of it settled with familiar ease against her left shoulder as she balanced the stringed instrument on the endpin, the lower bout between her knees, upper half resting against her chest.

She smiled nervously, her slight figure bent around the large instrument making it seem all the more awkward . The octave that issued forth was lower and more throaty than he'd expected from a stringed instrument, but what he found more surprising, was how low she could pitch her soprano voice to match, as she sang quiet, giving new life to one of the more sorrowful Art and Garfunkel hits that frequented the radio.

"Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone

'Neath the halo of a street lamp

I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night

And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never share

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence..."

Without noticing he had done so, Drake's hand subconsciously wandered to the neck of the guitar and slowly drew it up into his lap. He blinked at the familiar weight of the instrument, then drew his calloused finger tips across the cords, instantly drawn into the rhythm of the chorus, and before he could stop himself, his low baritone joined hers in a bittersweet harmonious accord.

""Fools", said I, "You do not know

Silence like a cancer grows

Hear my words that I might teach you

Take my arms that I might reach you"

But my words, like silent raindrops fell

And echoed

In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming

And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls"

And whispered in the sounds of silence

Did You Know?..." He paused as the music died, looking sufficiently embarrassed as their voices trailed off, but she only smiled at him.

"You play beautifully. And you sing well too. You must get that from your mother."

He blushed and scowled, putting the guitar down as if it had suddenly offended him," My father hated her giving me music lessons. The guitar, the piano, but most of all the singing lessons. He said it was sissy stuff, and his son was going to be a man's man, who owned guns and collected knives, not some pansy musician..."

He wondered why he cared about what his father thought. After all, he hated his father. Even now, the thought of him made his stomach churn unpleasantly. Though the nightmares had become less frequent. He supposed Jake had wanted him to grow up and take over Mallard Industries, to manufacture firearms and explosives. At that moment, he couldn't imagine anything more miserable. He'd sat through so many lectures by his father, watching him disassemble and reassemble this or than hand gun and clean the parts, been quizzed on the countries of origin for each piece. The knowledge was nestled firmly, unwanted lay, like a cancer in his brain, very near the music lessons from his mother, encroaching on the hallowed memories no matter how he tried to forget.

Unexpectedly, he found himself speaking, vomiting up words in a rush, "Sometimes I thought my father loved his weapons, his stupid guns, more than us. That's all he ever talked to me about. Loading chambers and shooting ranges and force of impact. After he lost his company, his precious weapons company, that's when he started to drink, started to look at us like we were the reason everything in his life had gone wrong..."

He hesitated, embarrassed, afraid she would laugh,"After my mother di...after she was killed." He drew in a breath, surprised how hard it was to say those words,"there was...this cop...a big fox who promised to catch my dad. He never did but..he tried, really hard. I think he's still trying. He comes and visits me, every now and then, at the orphanage. Asks me how I'm doing. Brings me stuff, clothes and the like. I thought maybe I could be a social worker like my mom or...or maybe even a cop someday, like him. But that's probably dumb."

"Of course it isn't! I actually...really want to be a doctor, a pediatrician. I love kids. I'd like to have a whole bunch of them someday" She replied quickly and he smiled almost shyly in response, as she grasped his hand giving it quick, reassuring squeeze. It gave him the courage to speak from his heart, to continue.

"There aren't very many of them, you know? Good cops. Mostly, they're out for the power. They take bribes, look the other way. If I were a cop, I'd make sure no child or woman in St. Canard ever has to go through what I did again..." He nodded, resolved on this. " Guys like my father, they need someone who isn't afraid of all their power and influence, to make sure they go away forever, where they can't ever hurt anyone again. Someone who puts all the facts together so well some greasy lawyer can't talk their way out of it."

"Now you sound like a detective. Detective Drake Mallard," Piper tested out the sound of it, smiling cheekily at him,"but if you're going to be a detective, you need a hat. Like one of those old black and white specials with the classy women in dress suits and the men all wear trench coats and fedoras...that's why you neèd, a big broad brimmed fedora, that overshadows those gorgeous blue eyes of yours. It adds an air of...myyyyyyssstery..." She whispered the last word dramatically and he threw back his head and laughed out loud.

"It sounds corny, not mysterious. Those guys are always knobs that talk out loud to themselves..."

"No, no, it would be dashing, with just a hint of...danger. In fact, you should wear a mask to hide your true identity while interrogating your 's nothing the criminal mind fears more than the unknown...they'll cower as you spring from the shadows, a force of justice clad in the guise of darkness, night his only confidant, the silent moon his only ally," She foreigned a dramatic gasp, followed by teetering on her feet before she fell into a swoon,"And it's all so romantic, you'll sweep a thousand lovely helpless damsels in distress off their feet!"

He lunged forward and caught her in his arms before she could fall, blushing as he met her gaze,"You make me sound like some cockamamie vigilante. Next you'll have me wearing a cape with the suit and fedora. Besides..there's only one damsel I want to sweep off her feet, doll."

She flushed, her eyes locked with his, rich golden honey and deep ocean blue interwoven in an intimate , silent conversation that seemed to last a lifetime. Strangely, he was thinking of so many trivial concepts that blurred together in this beautiful surreal infinity he'd found himself engaged in. How perfect his mother's necklace would look, around her slender neck. How sweetly her eyelashes fluttered, like dark butterflies against her cheeks as her eyes slowly closed, her face drifting closer to his. How much he wanted to dance with her at their upcoming senior prom, just weeks away, presuming he ever worked up the courage to ask her.

Then another barrier between then crumbled, his eyes closing at the warmth of her soft lips ghosting across his bill, coaxing his own to seek her out, to draw her more firmly against his frame as his fingers embedded in her silken hair. Nothing had ever felt so right. It was as if his past were being washed away, swept into a sea of darkness and here he was, bathed in all encompassing light.

When he finally stopped kissing her, the words rushed out before he could compose them in a way that sounded right, so instead they were all a mismatched jumble that sounded something like:"Doyouwannagotopromwithme?"

More astonishingly, she just smiled, as if his blurted nonsense had been perfectly understandable, still comfortably nestled in his embrace as she replied,"I thought you'd never ask."

After Abigail's death, Drake never expected to have a reason to celebrate his birthday again. It fell roughly mid September, shortly after the start of the school year. And over the past several years, only Officer Flexia, the tall fox police officer, had ever remembered the occasion, dropping by the orphanage briefly to gift him with modest but appreciated items like a inexpensive watch, a winter jacket, or whatever he thought might help the youth out. In truth, Drake was mystified by the man's generosity and once asked him why he bothered to take an interest in him after all this time.

"I suppose it's because you remind me of my daughter in some ways," he'd been told after much mulling it over,"She has a lot of spirit, like you, and she lost her mother some years back. I'd like to think if she were alone in the world, someone would see what a good kid she is, like you, and take an interest in reminding her she's not been forgotten by the universe."

That seemed a little hokey to Drake but the sentiment was appreciated, so he never argued. Still, he got used to being mostly forgotten by the universe. So he was completely taken by surprise when Piper cornered him about a week after their first kiss, all but bursting with excitement as she presented him with a large strangely shaped box. It was sort of a four inch thick broad cylinder and when he opened it up, he found , more surprising still, a broad brimmed black banded red fedora inside.

"Do you like it." She gushed "it's an early birthday present."

"Very very early. My birthday isn't for months. Five months," he smirked teasingly, still staring at the vividly colored headgear.

"Oh fine," she swatted him playfully," Then it's a just because present. Do you like it though?" Worry crept into her voice.

"I'm not sure WHEN I'll ever wear this thing but yeah, it's great, it's very, very red," Drake chuckled, turning the hat around in his hands. Just to be polite, he put it on his head, surprised by how well it fit, and how comfortable it in fact was. It was the first real present he'd gotten in years, the first since his mother's passing, and as odd as it was, despite being something he would have never asked for, he liked it a great deal. Or maybe he just liked the girl who had given it to him so much it didn't matter.

"Is this because Napolean always wears huge hats in his portraits?" He cracked, looking at his reflection in a window. They were sitting outside the school, waiting for the bell to ring, and his face looked a bit haggard, tired. He'd been working extra hours. He hadn't told her, ofcourse, but once they graduated, he planned to take the savings he'd been squirreling away and rent an appartment. What he secretly hoped would be their first home together, presuming she agreed to move in with him. Once he was out of school, he planned on asking for more time at the bakery, or perhaps getting a second job to put a down payment on a certain piece of jewelry.

But right now now it was all he could do to keep his grades level, to stay awake in class, and to keep peddling his bicycle around town. Another thing he hadn't admitted to her was that he had recently been resorting to breaking up caffeine pills and inhaling them so it surged into his bloodstream and gave him that extra boost of energy to keep pushing forward. He knew it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but it was only for a little longer and he needed to keep going. He had a prom tux to rent, a corsage to purchase, and I numerous other seemingly trivia but vital items to check off his list if he was going to prove to her father, and to himself he was worthy of having her in his life as a permanent fixture.

Little did he know how the best intentions often paved a path into the depths of personal hell and that very day as he perched on a metal railing, his arm around her, breathing in the early morning air, planning just how he was going to present his mother's cross necklace to her on prom night, how her face would light up and how touched she would be when he explained the full significance of the only thing he had left, other than a photo, of his beloved mother, his world was about to begin another downward spiral. It continued in that direction for a number of years, even as he rose to become one of the world's most notorious criminals, a path he might not have chosen, but that was all too easy to follow once he set for on it.


	3. Chapter 3: The Birth of Negaduck

Chapter 2: The Path He Didn't Choose Part 2

"As you may well have guessed, this love story, like Napolean's , did not have a happy ending. The afore mentioned cross necklace that has by now become almost a legendary icon within my family tree, never made it into the possession of Piper Sands, either in the Negaverse nor the Normalverse.

This is largely the fault of the Negaverse Launchpad McQuack, and Felton Blackshell, though don't fool yourself, Negaducks epic temper played a sizable part in his downfall and subsequent rise as a criminal overlord. He would no doubt love to place the blame squarely on the shoulders of his school mates, and to be sure, they are loathsome individuals, whom he eventually put in their places during his reign. But he is not without his own share of fault. And he set events in motion that had odd consequences of their own, some that resulted in lives that might otherwise not have been, others that ended promising lives and futures in horrific manners.

I may have said this before, but I don't believe in concidences. You'll likely hear me repeat that more than once. I do, however, believe in karma, that everything balances itself out, and that if you judge someone prematurely based on what you want to believe or NEED to believe, in order to fuel your drive in life, bad things can happen, and you lose out on what might have been. Karma is an unsympathetic bitch."

The Negaverse:

St. Canard High School, Later that Day...

Though it may be hard to believe, considering this is Negaduck were referring to, it started innocently enough. He was dozing off during an old newsreel, one of those corny black and white pieces that was projected onto a pull down screen. In the past, he might have enjoyed the moment to take a quick cat nap, but it was the last period of the day and he had his shift at work, so instead of letting himself drift, he dug the foil wrapped crushed caffeine pills out of one pocket and inhaled a tiny boost of energy releasing powder, feeling the effects sharpen his wits and course through his veins like lightning as he almost instantly became more acutely aware and sat up straight in his desk.

Whether Launchpad McQuack or Felton Blackshell knew exactly what he was doing, or actually mistook what they saw as the actions of a drug abuser is hard to say and at this point in time, they might not even recall whether they honestly thought Drake was a tweaked of some sort or if they just saw a golden opportunity to get a hated rival into deep , irrevocable trouble. In either case, the red haired duck nudged his friend, nodding in Drake's direction, and Felton, who had been half bored into a coma by the film reel, glanced in that direction With vague interest, then his eyes lit up in a most disconcerting manner, and Drake caught a glimpse of that wicked gleam in them seconds before the bell rang. Then the other mallard was off like a shot, and any chance to stop what had been put in forward motion was lost as he made a beeline for the Principal's office.

Drake never made it to the front door of the school. He was quickly corralled by a small group of teachers and escorted to the principals office, where he was confronted on his alleged drug use and suspended for the next three days. This in and of itself, might not have been an utter disaster, though it surely would have left a damning black mark on his permanent record. But the school felt responsible for reporting a ward of the states crimes to his immediate caregiver, and that caregiver, Mrs. Blackclaw, a grizzled and vindictive badger in well into her mid years, who had little patience for children after so many years of sheparding delinquents in and out of the doors of her establishment, not only came to pick Drake up from school, but proceeded to drive him to his place of work at the bakery. There, she promptly confronted Roman McCawber with a litany of Drake's crimes, including truancy, breaking and entering (which was actually a matter of him being locked in the janitors closet and having to break the door off its hinges in order to get out), lack of respect, shoplifting, and this last disaster, and demanded he be dismissed from his employment.

Although Roman gave Drake a decidedly sympathetic look throughout the tirade, his hands were tied and he was forced to do as he was told, firing him on the spot. Though he deeply regretted this action, Drake took little notice of that. He was too busy stewing in the unfairness of the world and his own misery, the black ball of all consuming rage and hatred in his gut stoked from dwindling embers into a fiery inferno. And when Janet gave him an all too familiar snooty look as he was being escorted from the premises for the last time that day, he took particular pleasure in inciting a sharp, shocked gasp, seeing hers small, pudgy hands fly to her breast in dismay as he calmly , with a malicious grin, flipped her the bird.

Over the next several days, while confined to the orphanage dorms on limited meals and no time to do anything but scrub floors and wash windows, he fed the rage monster inside him by brooding endlessly on the one he blamed it on, namely Felton Blackshell. He hadn't been able to avenge his mother, but by what little he believed in, he would not allow this to stand. He would not allow Blackshell to walk away unscathed.

He dug into his savings and the night before his suspension ended, he located, of all people Launchpad Mcquack . True, Launchpad was also a culprit in his situation, but less directly so, and he would get revenge on him at a later point. Besides, Launchpad was the only person he knew with access to the item he desired. And the dimwit was so utterly dense he had absolutely no clue what Drake intended to use it for. He even complimented him on his purchase!

"I never pictured you fer the type ta actually up the anti in a fight, Mallard. Figured you were just a little rich boy who bought his way out of everything, but hey, respect, Mallard, respect," Launchpad smirked as he dug through his grungy backpack, leaning against a phone booth outside the drug store, their meeting place for the transaction. Mcquack had a proclivity for collecting various crude weapons and certain grunge fashion accessories. From the unwashed reeking depths of his bag, he produced a well worn set of spiked brash knuckles, handing them off as he counted his money,"Pleasure doing business with ya." Apparently it never crosse do I still mall mind that the weapon could later be used against him.

Over the weekend, Drake kept the weapon under his pillow, clenching his fist around them all night, fantasizing how Felton's face would look like raw tenderized beef, a mass of mixed reds and purples, once he was done with him. It gave him the first taste of a new kind of peace that he would become addicted to for the rest of his life, and he fell asleep with a smile on his bill, his fist bone white wrapped around his first real weapon.

He dressed bright and early, and left for school before anyone else did, not even bothering to drop by his customary stop over to his mother's grave. If he had, perhaps he would have hesitated and rethought his plan of action, who can say for sure. But he didn't. Instead, he waited by Felton's locker, his jacket sleeve pulled down over his hand to mask the tarnished glint of the brass knuckles, his mind roaring with a hellacious symphony of inner demons egging him on.

He was so intently focused, he barely heard Piper as she approached him . "Drake, I heard what happened. I've been trying to get find a way to talk to you all weekend but that orphanage matron wouldn't let me past the gate. Are you alright?" He grunted in response, barely hearing her over the pounding of his pulse between eyes, his gaze locked on the approaching Felton Blackshell.

Felton himself developed his survival instincts a bit late to save himself the misery that was about to befall him, or he would have turned and walked away from his locker. That day, like most days, his mind was preoccupied with his mother's health, so instead he merely hesitated a step, then lifted his chin and strutted to his locker boldly, elbowing Drake away from it.

"Hey Drake the Dweeb, or is it Drake the Druggie now? Heard you lost your job..." That was all he had time to say, because the first upper cut slammed him back into his locked and snapped his beak shut so solidly his teeth slammed together and almost bit through his tongue. He gasp in pain and surprise as another blow dug into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, a third to the left side of his head, then a fourth to his right. After that he lost count. So did Drake.

The adrenaline, the pure unequivocal bliss of finally fighting back overcame him, reducing his surroundings, the grasping hands trying to pull him away, the jeers of his fellow students, Piper's screams, to a distant blur. He was emersed in a strange semi surreal tunnel vision,and at the end of the tunnel was the other boy whom he was attacking with a ferocity he hadn't known he had possessed.

The beating might have gone on like that for several more minutes, at least until the teachers could have restrained him, if not for those wickedly curved barbs on the brass knuckles, three inch long hooked spikes. On the final blow, he missed his target when Felton stumbled and instead of hitting him in the jaw, his fist slid sideways across his face and hooked right into the orb of the left eye, popping it with almost casual ease from the socket with a sickening wet sound. Now the jeers had stopped. And Piper was no longer the only one screaming. Everyone was screaming. Everyone except Drake who was just staring in stupefied awe at the blood drip, drip, dripping on the smooth white linoleum floor and the minuscule body part dangling from his fist.

After that, things happened very quickly. He was tackled, cuffed, arrested, dragged from the school. In some distant way he recalled that he had been expelled, and yet he couldn't stifle the wicked sneering grin when he remembered Felton being carried on a gurney out to an ambulance, moaning pitifully, whining about his lost eye. That sneer was captured in the first of many mug shots.

He spent the night in a cell, rubbing his fingers together, absently watching flecks of dried blood flake off and drift to the cement. The gravity of his offense took weeks to set in. He was out on bail by then, though Mrs. Blackclaw no longer tried to confine him to the dorm. Secretly, and he took great pleasure in this factor, he noticed her flinch when he turned a corner and he knew she was afraid of him. Finally, everyone was afraid of him. Well, almost everyone.

Piper tried to contact him, several times, but when he saw her on the street he just turned and walked the other direction, not ready to try and explain his actions yet. That coal of hatred for the world at large still burned brightly in him, and he though, who should he have to justify himself to her, to anyone? Why should he have to explain finally being tired of being the universe's punching bag?

The day of senior prom, he finally woke up, staring at the ceiling , and decided, yes, he should speak to her, if nothing else. Maybe even apologize for not being able to take her to the dumb dance, though in truth it now seemed like it would have been a waste of time and an insult to his newfound pride, getting dressed up in some itchy monkey suit to be paraded I front of gawking morons for the sake of what? A picture in a yearbook, a book made up of knobs he loathed. Still...it had been importan to her.

Resolutely, he decided he would track her down at the burger joint most of the kids hung out at during lunch. It was the first of a what would later be a blooming franchise, Hamburger Hippo's, a gaudy ridiculous establishment that was built to resemble the open mouth and body of a massive purple hippopotamus.

He was not yet as infamous as he would yet become in the next few years, so his entrance to the fast food burger joint went unnoticed by most of the high schoolers there. Those that saw him gave him a wide berth of space and muttered "..crazy." under their breaths before making a hasty exit.

Launchpad was holding court at his usual table, his groupie girls and lesser punks gathered around him as his voice carried, around the room. Drake normally wouldn't have paid any attention, but he figured , seeing as Felton was no where in view, he must be recounting for his fellow flunk outs how his dumb one eyed friend was fairing, and in spite of himself, it would boost his ego a little more to hear how he was suffering. So he ease in closer, trying to be inconspicuous . Unfortunately, to his disappointment, Launchpad wasn't talking about Felton.

" They say the quiet ones are supposed to be real wildcats in bed, but man, after all that teasing an' playing hard to get, I was almost bored to sleep. I mean sure, she's got a great rear, looks as good going as she does coming, but still..." He feigned loud obnoxious snores, to the delighted laughter of his audience, " I mean looks only gotcha so far after all..unless yer me. " he toyed with a lock of Beth Webfoot's dark hair. "I tell ya, babe, breakin' up with you fer a shot at that Piper Sands was the worst mistake I ever made..."

Drake froze, the his fists clenched. He felt that rage beast in his gut whom he was by now becoming familiar with, roaring to life, and his first instinct was to climb right over the table, shoving the other punks out of the way left and right, male or female, and shove his fist down Launchpad's throat, then rip his tongue out at the root. But instead, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard behind him the glass cracked .

suddently a tan feathered fist caught him by his thin throat and slammed him against back against a brick wall so hard he lost his breath. He found himself staring into two furious dark eyes and an unfamiliar face.

"Ya like sharp objects, little boy? Like to play with sharp objects?" The woman he didn't know demanded. She was roughly his mother's age, or the age she would have bee, had she still been alive. She hard brunette hair streaked with honey hued blond that had been bleached and dyed in. Her voice had the rough edged tone of a habitual smoker. Her plumage was a light brown, her bill a darker brown. And al her clothing was black. Mostly leather, from jacket to tightfitted jeans. She had the look of an outlaw biker mama, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, she produced a polished pocket knife of the stiletto type, which she promptly pressed the point of just above his bill under one of his eyes. "You got pretty eyes, little boy. Really pretty. I like blue eyes. I'm a sucker for blue eyes. You got those from yer Mama, didn't you? Damn, those are so pretty..." He felt the tip of the blade dig in and inspite of himself, he flinched. He felt a thin trickle of blood run down his cheek. She smiled coldly," so damn pretty, I just may have to take one with me to remember you by, maybe both.."

"Mrs. Blackshell, " another female voice interrupted softly, and a delicate hand touched her arm, not grasping it, but imploring attention none the less. It took some effort for Drake to force his locked gaze from the blade scraping at his eye socket to the speaker. When he did, his gaze narrowed into a glare.

" Mrs. Blackshell, please, what Drake did to Felton was...horrible. But you don't know the whole story..."Piper pleaded softly, her eyes darting from one hostile face to the other caught in the conflict.

" You best move along little girl, " Luanne Blackshell replied coldly, but not unkindly, barely glancing at Piper. "This is between your boyfriend and me. You know what he did to my son."

"I am NOT her boyfriend," he snarled, shooting Piper a look of pure loathing, then added in a spurt of vicious sac ask,"It turns out she likes them big and dumb, severely lacking in any intellect or refinement what so ever. I have a few many brains to fit the criteria."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, boy. You got dumb in spades, taking a set of brass knuckles to my only child and blinding him on one side," the woman replied with equal venom. Then it clicked in Drake's head. Her son. Felton, this was Felton's mother. He felt a sudden rush of worry, quite certain that he was about to lose both his eyes. Would his mother have done any less for him? He knew Abigail would have never purposefully hurt a someone she considered a child, but if they had maimed him for life as he had this woman's only son, her baby, could he be certain?

Luanne's blade had not wavered, but despite the insults he had flung at her, and the hurt, confused look on her face, Piper maintained her place at Felton's mother's side, speaking rapidly," what happened to Felton's eye was an accident. Drake was just angry because Felton got him suspended from school and fired from his job. Drake didn't mean to hurt him so badly, he's not like that, Mrs. Blackshell. He's usually so kind and gentle, but he was working so hard..."

"The way I hear it he got suspended for huffing something. What's my son got to do with him doing drugs? Felton doesn't mess with that stuff," she disagreed, her face set in stone, but the pressure of the knife blade eased just the slightest amount as if she were uncertain.

"It was just a bunch of caffeine pills all crushed up, you old bat!" Drake gritted out, still enraged at the implication that he would ever be stupid enough to meddle with brain rotting illegal drugs, " I was using them to stay awake because I'd been doing double shifts and your son played stool pigeon to the high and mighty Principal and cost me everything I was working for because he was a rat!"

"You're calling my son a nark? My son? A goddamn rat fink?" He couldn't tell if she sounded angrier than ever or vaguely impressed by his unmitigated gall, considering how much of a disadvantage she had him at. He grunted , then heaved a sigh.

"Don't believe me then. No one ever does. What do I know, right? In just some poor little rich boy turned state property. Sure, I wanted your son to pay for ratting me out. He deserved to pay. But what happened to his eye...that wasn't what I meant to do. The damn brassknuckles were just meant to mash his face up and teach him a lesson. I didn't think about the barbs on them until it was too late. But if he'd minded his own business and kept his big fat beak outta my life, it wouldn't have gone down like it did." He glared defiantly at her, his teeth gritted, readying himself for the searing pain to follow. Let her do it. It was just more fuel for the fire, and the world was already against him as it was.

After a long moment, the blade was suddently removed and Luanne's firm hand around his throat eased its grip. He coughed a bit them slapped her hand away, trying to regain some of his bravado as he rubbed his bruised neck.

"I didn't raise my boy to be a squealer. He knows squeakers always get their comeuppance," she replied evenly at length, still eyeing Drake with distaste as if he were something nasty she had stepped in and marred her biker boots. " You get a pass for now, Blue Eyes. But someday I may be paying you another visit, expecting something in return for my generousity so you keep your nose clean in the mean time and take this as a lesson. If Felton and I weren't already packed up and headed to Duckburg, well...let's say if I had to see your face walking down the street everyday, knowing what you did to my son, accident or not, I might be a bit too tempted to mar that face of yours up a bit and even the odds out. Lucky for you, you're just a spit in the fire, all talk and nothing to back it up. I wager you won't make it a month once you come of age and the city dumps you out of the orphanage onto the street."

Drake bristled furiously, his hands clenched into white knuckled fists as she tucked the blade in her purse and walked away. He took a step after her and shouted, "Yeah?! We'll see about that, you old witch! Well just see! The next time our paths cross, I'll be running this town! You hear me? You'll be in line to bow down and kiss my feet with the rest of these knobs!"

"Drake.." Piper cautiously reached out, taking to take his hand and steer him away but he recoiled from her , turning his anger on her without hesitation.

"You always have to stick your nose in my business, don't ya? What do you want now, huh? A thank you? You want me to thank you ? Alright, how's this?" He got in her face, ever word a weapon of mass destruction that he flung at her with deadly accuracy,"Thank you, Piper...for stabbing me in the back, thank you for being a no good lying cheating piece of trash who flung herself at Launchpad McQuack of all people, the minute I was out of the picture! Thanks a whole heap! Oh and by the way, you can go to Hell!"

She stared at him like a doe caught in the headlights, uncomprehending, dismayed,"He told you that he and I.."

"Oh noooooooo," he scoffed, throwing his hands up,"He didn't tell me. I'm the dumb SAP who was the last to know. But he sure told everyone else in town how you were crawling all over him the second I was gone..."

"But that's a lie, I never..."

"I told you before, anyone who's into that loser isn't worth my time. Stupid me for thinking you were had more taste than that " he spat viciously. He felt soiled at just the thought of her touching him. The tears running down her face, the sobs she was trying to hold back seemed to claw at his stomach, to dig in and burn like fire, but he ignored it, shrugging her hands off as she grasp at his sleeve.

" ...but I never let him touch, me Drake, I swear. You're wrong, I was just tutoring him and he.."

"Tuitoring?!" He scoffed, "Is that what you call it? Wow, almost makes you sound innocent, doesn't it? Was I going to be the next "student" you "tuitored" or were you planning on taking on the whole football team first, you know, just to get their "grades up"?" He sneered, his bill twisting into an ugly expression of disgust as she wilted under the hateful look, "You know what, I'm gonna save you the trouble of answering that, because there's no way in HELL that this duck," he jerked a thumb at himself,"Has any interest in Launchpad McQuack's sloppy seconds."

Fat glistening tears rolled down her face in rivulets , but he was immune to her heartbroken expression. Let her be heartbroken. He had had his full share of heartbreak in his life time and right now, he was feeling generous enough to pass it around. "I can't believe you think that of me, after what we shared... You know how I feel about you, you must.." She whispered weakly.

He waved her off, shoving her hard enough to make her stumble and nearly fall, not listening to any of it. The blood roared inside his head, feeding his anger. It felt good to give into it, to block the world out. He had known all along he couldn't trust her, couldn't trust anyone in this world.

Still, inspite of his anger , she reached out to him, imploringly, trying to mend what was irreparable,"Drake, I love you, I would never betray you.."

Whirling, he stepped off the curb. He had heard enough.

"Drake..."

"Shut up, JUST SHUT UP!" he roared, his sight narrowed down to blackened tunnel vision as he glared at her, gesturing vehemently as he took a step backward into the left hand lane,"Don't you get it, I'm done, we're DONE, I never want to see your stupid slutty face again, I wish you'd..."

"DRAKE, NO!" she screamed and suddenly lunged at him, hitting him full force and sending him into the other lane just as a car slammed into her and her crumpled ragdoll limp body flew backwards into the gutter, rolling over several times before it lay prone like a marionette with its strings cut.

"Piper..." He struggled to his feet, cars screeching to a stop all around him but he barely noticed as he tried to stand, found his legs wouldn't hold him as weak with shock as they were, and instead dragged himself on his hands and knees to her. One look told him her legs and pelvis had been crushed from the impact. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, misshapen and struggling to draw in each breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew she had broken ribs collapsed inward, puncturing vital organs. Maybe her lungs, which was what made the wet whistling sound each time she tried to inhale. "Call an ambulance.." He croaked out at someone standing behind him as he gathered her up in his arms, trying to ease her breathing, "Piper.."

"Drake...please...tell my dad I I love him..and I know he..he tried his best..."

"What? No, you're... You tell him yourself, you know he doesn't like me.."he stammered, confused as to why she was saying these things. The second the car had struck her, all his anger had left him, deserted him like there was a hole inside him that it had drained out through. Suddenly he wanted, needed to believe her. Because what she said next was that last thing he'd wanted to hear.

"..I'm dying.."

"No..."

"I am," she said with calm certainty. Calm. How could she be so calm? People were screaming, gathering around them in a rush, talking over top of one another in a dull roar of pointless babble. But why wasn't anyone HELPING her? Why was he the only one trying to help?!

" You're not dying." He snarled more harshly than he'd intended "You're gonna be fine."

"Hold my hand..."

"Stop it, I'm not holding your ..." He gritted his teeth, forced himself to calm down, to speak in a more soothing tone. She was in shock, that's all. "I'm not holding your hand because you're not dying."

"Drake, please..Hold my hand," she repeated, hers searching in a trembling way for his, but when she found it he refused to grasp hers.

"No. You're not dying. Do you hear me? You don't die today," finally he accepted her hand to keep her focused, because what he had to say, he wanted her full attention once he said it. So he took her hand , squeezed it, and forced out the words he'd been holding back for a while now, the words he'd never thought he'd say to anyone ever again after losing his mother,"I love you. There, you don't have to say it because I said it. There, I said it. I do.I love you.I love you. I've always been in love with you from the first time I saw you..I will always be in love with you. And I can't..I can't lose anyone else I love, not like this..We're gonna have the best life, Piper, you and me..we'll buy a little house in the burbs, get a dog, you'll go to medical school, I'll work two jobs to pay the bills, flip burgers if I have to, then I'll go into law enforcement, the way we talked about. We'll have a little backyard wedding with white roses and you'll wear your mother's dress. I'll rent a tux and I'll even wear the stupid red fedora! We'll have two or three kids, a little girl , maybe two girls, one boy who'll get into fights now and then and we'll have to ground him, take his allowance away, normal stuff, like you always wanted, a normal life.."

"That sounds nice, " she smiled faintly, her eyes fluttering shut. A tiny drop of precious red had formed at the corner of her mouth and it hypnotized him for a moment so he couldn't look away, he could only keep talking, keep listening for an ambulance that was taking an eternity.

"Yeah, nice. Right? I'll stop being such a jerk, I won't yell anymore and.." He felt her fingers go slack in his grasp, " I know you were telling the truth, okay? I know you didn't go behind my back. I'm sorry..I'm so sorry. I never apologize, so you know I mean it, I mean it and that's why you can't die today, Piper, because I love you and for the first time in our lives were gonna be happy. We're gonna be so happy together, Piper, so happy.." He was babbling, he knew he was, but all he could do was keep going, his fingers caught in her matted hair. It was so thick with blood...so much blood..." So you can't die today,okay? You can't die, you can't leave me alone in this world because we're supposed to end up together. We're meant to be, baby, we're like Napoleon and Josphine, remember? Piper..Piper..Piper.."

She was smiling so peacefully, she could have been asleèp, but she wasn't . She was still as a china doll, frozen in time. Something like a watch winding down inside his mind just seemed to shut down and he stopped. The world faded into a vague, unimportant distance, what some calł "shock" as he folded her hands gently over her chest and tenderly tucked back a stray lock of bloody hair. So much blood. All over his clothes his hands, but he didn't realize it. People tried to ask him questions, the sound of sirens screeched as they approached but he just stood up and started walking.

He wasn't exactly sure how far he had walked, or how long, only that his throat felt suddenly dry and parched. He paid no mind to the wary looks passing pedestrians cast him and his splattered shirt and jacket, his red stained hands, he just pushed a door open and walked into a mini mart, straight to the cooler. He stared blankly at he selection of beverages before picking out a random bottle of root beer from amount the ice cubes. Some of the ice touched his fingers and was tinged reddish.

He blinked then turned and walked up to the front counter and sat the beverage on it, over a bunch of lottery tickets in the glass case with colorful phrases like " Win big" and " live your dream" for some reason that struck him as funny, he uttered a low, dark laugh that in no way reminded him of his own.

"Geeze' kid are you okay?"

The cashier, who wasn't much older than him, stared at him in disgust."you need a doctor or something?!"

"Huh?" Drake looked down, absently plucking at his shirt, which was starting to turn dry and stiff at the edge. " no..it's not mine..."

Unsurprisingly, this didn't make the skinny weasel much happier with his presence. He watched him intently with those beady eyes as Drake, half in a trance, dug in his stained coat to pull out change and count it out on the glass top , all in a very zombie like matter. The change was also tacky with blood and the cashier didn't seem to want to accept it.

"I think you better leave, kid." The weasel gave him a look, reaching for two things that were hidden out of sight under the counter, one being a small nondescript button that activated a silent alarm to contact the police, which he triggered. The other was a small revolver secured to the underside of the counter, which th weasel discreetly palmed .

Drake stared at him, slowly growing annoyed ,"Yah fine, I'll take my soda and go..."

"No. I want you to leave right now," the rodent disagreed in a slightly too smug tone.

"I just gave you my money."

"Yer money's no good here. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, especially your type. The trouble making type..." The weasel gestured to a sign with the motto printed on it, " so go on, get out of here! Or the copsll come lock yer sorry tail feathers up..."

Drake's arm shot across the counter and he grabbed the weasel by the throat," You're the one who should be sorry, rat boy. You think I'm a troublemaker? I haven't even begun to show you the kind of trouble I'm capable of.." He paused as th weasel shakily shoved the gun against his midsection then without hesitation he snatched the weapon right out of the rodents sweaty, shaky grasp even as he tried to pull the trigger, " You moron, you didn't even take the safety off

He grinned wickedly, full of malicious pleasure, as he turned the gun on the weasel who looked ready to wet his pants. With a click, he switched the safety off,"My old man, his company used to pop out thousands of these every single day. He used to make me sit for hours, learning how to take them apart and clean them, target practicing in the backyard whenever my mother wasn't home, and you know what? I'm a damn good shot." He pressed the barrel between the weasels beady wide eyes. "but at this rage I could be the worst shot in the world, and I'd still be able to blow your tiny little brain all over that wall next to the CooCoo Cola poster, couldn't I?"

"p-p-please..." The weasel cashier whimpered, cowering.

"Now you respect me, because I'm a threat," Drake growled out.

His head jerked up as red and blue flashing lights filled the front windows of the store. He pistol whipped the weasel up one side of the head, knocking him out cold, then dragged him out from behind the counter and tied him up with a roll of duck tape as a voice over a megaphone informed him he was surrounded and to put his hands up and come out peacefully. Fat chance of that. He had no clue what he was going to do, his mind was racing, literally making up eac step second by second, but as an after thought he grabbed a cheap black bandit mask off a rack of dollar toys and tied it over his eyes.

As the police speaker informed him he had nowhere to go, he was already accessing his options. He spied an loose noisy air vent over head that likely lead outside and into the back alley behind the store if he could reach it and knock the whirling blade down.

His thoughts of escape were interrupted as an officer, gun drawn, slowly crept towards the door.

Drake dove behind the counter, hitting a key on the cash register so the door sprang open. He emptied the till with one swipe of his hand, stuffing it into the pockets of his red and yellow coat. The hell with it. He was a criminal now. And he was going to take everything he could get his hands on, everything that had ever been denied to him.

The officer, a tall plainclothes detective, a dog fox with broad muzzle and thick whiskers, eased into the store, covering the isles with his gun,"Whoever's in here, let's make this nice and simple, okay? No one has to get hurt..."

"Is that so? " Drake growled out lowly, his tone scathing," No one has to get hurt, huh? You think you can protect everyone? Is that it? No one can protect anyone, everyone gets hurt! And you damn pigs just sit there full of lies and smugness, eating yer donuts and not giving a shit! If you're so good a keeping people safe, where were you when my father was beating my mother to a bloody pulp until the wasn't a white feather left on her whole body, HUH?"

The detective froze, astonished as he recognized the young man's voice,"Drake?! Drake...is that you, Drake? My God...what on Earth are you doing?!"

"Taking control of my life, for once," the young duck sneered. He also recognized the officer, the one who had brought him second hand birthday presents. The one who had told him he was alone in the world, bound for the orphanage, always counseling him to try and be brave, try to look on the bright side for the positive things in life. He couldn't have cared less who this man was now, he was an enemy. The whole world was full of his enemies. Any dreams he had once harbors had turned to dust in his hands, blown away in a heartless wind of indifference.

"No..no son, this is wrong," Detective Flexia tried to gather his wits, to regain his composure as his crisis management training kicked in. He lowered the gun ever so slightly easing towards the counter as Drake stood up in plain view, his own gun leveled straight at him. "Deep down you know it. You're a good kid. A good boy. You don't want to hurt anyone..."

"I want to hurt EVERYONE," the masked mallard disagreed coldly.

"Alright," the police officer conceded," I can understand that with what you've been through..."

"You understand nothing. You don't know HALF of what I've been through, you don't comprehend a fraction of what I've lost..." The younger man sneered, his voice rising," You. Jake Mallard. This piece of trash," he kicked the bound and uncontious weasel viciously," Are all the same. You all think you can tell me how to live my life... BUT YOURE ALL JUST TRYING TO WALK OVER ME! WELL IM THE ONE RUNNING THE SHOW NOW!"

The fox narrowed his eyes , bringing his gun back up just a hair, not wanting to shoot the young man he'd known for so many years, but not certain he had a choice. "That's negative thinking Drake. Negative thinking never gets anyone anywhere, I've told you that before, son..."

"I AM NOT YOUR SON!" The now criminal and criminally unstable duck bellowed furiously, his eyes blazing,"DONT CALL ME THAT! AND DONT CALL ME "DRAKE" EITHER! DRAKE MALLARD DIED WHEN HE WAS NINE YEARS OLD AND HE WATCHED HIS MOTHER BEATEN TO DEATH BY THE MAN HE CALLED FATHER!"

"Alright..." The officer said slowly, still trying to salvage the situation which was rapidly spiraling more and more out of control. He still refused to admit that the boy before him was beyond saving. Outside, his partners tried to signal to him to get out of the path of friendly fire, but he waved them off, trying to buy time. "What should I call you then?"

A vicious smile slowly formed on the on the face of the future ruler of the Negaverse. " You said I think negatively. Maybe that's the only way I know how to be any more. Maybe that's all the world has left me with. A great swirling vortex, a black hole of negativity sucking everything near it into it and destroying it. Call me...Negaduck."

Without a hint of hesitation or remorse, the man who had once been called Drake Mallard raised his gun, leveled it at the face of the only person left in the world whom had ever shown him any hint of kindness, and pulled the trigger six times in rapid succession.

Notes: Okay, this chapter is violent, and more based on a lot of speculation and trying my hardest to explain why in Hades used the Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice Bakery as a hideout, much less how there came to be a trans dimensional portal in a giant birthday cake...does anyone else have any better ideas? Also, you will be seeing more of Felton Blackshell AKA Destrucktoduck and his crazy switchblade toting Mama in future chapters, and I would like to apologize if Piper seemed to be a pointless tragic Mary Sue throwaway character on the uber emo side, but her introduction has a point other than one more factor to tip the scales in favor of Drake becoming Negaduck which will become clear in the future. I would also like to state that while I used Jake and Abigail Mallard with their creator, Bloodyban's ' permission, I in no way own them, am trying to take any credit for their existence or backstory, and hope that my writing does not hinder Bloodyban or DarkwingPsycho in their writing in anyway because I linked my universe to theirs. They are the brilliance and inspiration for my work. (And I still owe Bloodyban a wedding


	4. Chapter 4: Salvation in Unlikely Forms 1

Chapter 3: Salvation in Unlikely Forms, Part 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Dedicated to My very good friends Amanda and Rachel, two very good friends who pushed me to keep my characters alive and to always strive to keep my story going.

This takes place two years before "Life, the Negaverse and Everything" and, yes, Celeste's absence will be taken into account BUT I'm considering this a alternative Negaverse of sorts (which I playfully call. the Jake / Celeste Negaverse, whereas the Normalverse my characters exist in I think of as the Celeste/Nimbusverse ) . In other words, thanks to the creative genius of Tad Stones, Aaron Sparrow, and James Silvani and their multidimensional gateways and versions of Darkwing, I consider it plausible to have version alternative realities where fan characters could or could not exist, so nah nah haters and naysayers! (Blows a raspberry) Also, and to quote the creator of the show, Mr. Tad Stones, "We chase the funny, there's not a lot of logic involved" which pretty much means anything goes in the Darkwing Duck fandom, and therefore my attempts to explain character behavior and or motivation or situations might me just as good as anyone elses. If you wish to complain, you may reach me at 1-800-GoSTUFF extension ITUPYOURFEATHEREDARSE. The character of Celeste Mallard is the property of me, as are her parents, her origin, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera... Since about 1994 when the concept of her first occurred to me and he design came into being in about 2001 on the Great Warrior fan boards, despite the fact that several other people have for some odd reason tried to claim her...which is weird, because it's not like she's super special, LOL, and yet I'm strangely more attached to her than ever. The story of Negaduck's youth and the characters of his father and mother, Jake and Abigail Mallard, are copyright by Bloodyban , are used with her permission and as a tribute to her, and if you want the full story please go read her fics, they're far better than my stuff. The same goes for Ariana McCawber and Jacob Mallard, who are the express property of the talented and lovely Disneypyscho, and I highly recommend you go read her work, as again, it surpasses mine. Negaduck, the Negaverse, etc. belongs to Disney. I honestly can't remember who came up with the concept of Destructoduck but it was another fan and I'm greatly appreciative the concept stuck with me. I needed a good "bad villain" to counter my "good villains".

I had to do some rough calculations based off the time my friends and I believe Darkwing Duck was set in, ages of the characters, etc. So bare with me because here's a rough estimate and I could have gotten it wrong. Jake Elias Mallard Born 1937. Drake Mallard, AKA Negaduck, born 1954. Celeste Oksana Mallard, born March 13th, 1978. The year Celeste is adopted by Negaduck is 1987, Jake is 50, Negs is 33, Celeste is 9. In the year most of my stories take place, 1992, the center of the Darkwing timeline-Jake is 55=Negs is 38 =Celeste is 14. Okay so hopefully that's not TOO confusing a timeline. On with the story!

Intercept from Bittersweet Poison: The Memoirs of one Cassidy Abigail Irene Vivian Quackenkov

"I for one, have never believed in confidence. Maybe it's just my cynical nature, believing that everything that's done to us, that we do in response no matter our state of mind, is purposeful, driven by some sort of inner voice.

There are so many voices in my head these days that sometimes I forget which one is my own. But there are things I know for certain, and no, none of them have to do with a handsome sparkly, brooding vampire.

The first thing I know is that my mother wasn't meant to live. She had far too much against her from the moment she was born, and even before that. Yet somehow she survived long enough to fall into the hands of one of the most depraved, insidious individuals ever to walk the Earth, one who fancied himself a Lord.

And in doing so, she set in motion a chain of events that are so unbelievable they belong in a science fiction novel...although, mind you, I was not there for most of them and these are all second hand accounts, so any errors you may have to excuse in my narration of the events. But the truth as I know it follows on a dark, dreary night long ago in a alternate universe not so far away..."

The year was 1980. It was a dark and stormy night, (Don't you just love stories that start that way? So much better than "Once upon a time.." ) a cold, rainy mid-March night. The full moon pierced the dense clouds on rare occasions as it hung pale and bloated like a corpse in the gallows, glinting off the streets littered with broken glass and spent ammunition cartridges. Such was an average St. Canard night in the Negaverse. Lord Negaduck, high ruler of the city and much of the world beyond, was at the height of his power and feared by even the most prominent and wealthy citizens. No one could have surmised his humble beginnings, at least no one living, but one mallard, and he had long since left this dimension over a decade ago. Since then both SHUSH and FOWL had fallen into near ruins, their grasp on the city withering with that of any form of law enforcement.

Thus, even if anyone had seen the sleek black motorcycle rolling cautiously down the darkened alley and come to a halt in the flickering glow of one the many faulty streetlights, their first I plus would have been to move on, to mind their own business as the bike continued on to Audoban Bay Bridge and stopped. The rider slid off, cradling a bit roughly a wriggling fussing bundle wrapped in an nondescript white swaddling blanket that would be its death shroud.

Balanced on the edge of the bridge, he dangled the bundle over the icy waters, willing his fingers to let go. This was his job. His livelihood was at stake, as well as the life of his mother, how could he ever afford the medications for her heart condition I he was fired? Still, still it left a foul taste in his mouth.

He had done terrible things. This child was the result of an act if indescribable stupidity on his part. He had had the fools judgement , driven by youthful lust, to stick his indiscretion in a vipers pit, and he got a full dose of venom for his trouble.

Although he was already cursing himself for his past stupidities, he couldn't fight the temptation to peel back the blanket just a hint. Icy rain drops splashed onto her small face, yet she didn't cry. The newborn had her mother's hazel eyes, but warm and full of life, rather than the cold beautiful gems he'd been hypnotized by. But that was all he saw of her mother in here. Her plumage was that of his own M'ma, tan and tawny, with short silken auburn curls of hair. He knew this had been her damnation, but as his heart softened just a bit, it might also have been her salvation.

Mere hours ago, he had been summoned to Cashandra's room. This was a most unnerving event, because after their short lived and tawdry affair which had mostly taken place, due to it thrilling her from the scandal, in the back of the limo he drove for her and her husband.

Felton had been employed as a bodyguard and chauffeur for the McDuck family for a number of years in his youth prior to his boss's daughter, Cashandra Darcia ("Darcy" , to her friends, if she could have been said to have any) McDuck submitting to an arranged marriage by her father, Scrooge McDuck. The eligible bachelor in question, one Laszlo Tealwing, was a perfect match for Cashandra: sinfully rich, doting, and remarkably dense enough to believe she actually loved him.

By contrast, Cashandra was cunning, spoiled, and almost painfully lovely with naturally curling ebony tresses and feathers like white satin. It was said, or rather whispered by those who dared to risk old Scrooge McDuck's wrath, that he had vehemently wooed Cashandra's mother, the demure Magica McDuck nee Despell, because she was born from a long lineage of powerful witches and able to cast charms and change fortunes. Some even spread the rumor that her castings were responsible for Scrooge's endless good fortune and the reason he'd become a millionaire.

Felton certainly had never argued with these tales, despite their supernatural content, because the first time he found himself lost in Cashandra's green and golden swirled eyes, their color richer than an entire city of money bins, he was hopelessly spellbound. She had bewitched him so entirely he often found himself staring at her longingly knowing he could never hope to win such an angelic creature for himself.

Yet, on occasion, he also caught her staring at him, when he was out in the Duckburg Mansion's looping driveway, his feathers smeared with grease from working on one of the many vehicles, or his wife beater tank top soaked through from washing the limousine. Her hungry eyes raked wantonly over the rippling muscles of his well toned back and shoulders.

As stated previously, Cashandra was nothing if not the perfect stereotype of a spoiled little rich girl, given almost anything she desired and denied little, which made her desire the few things she had been denied for the sake of propriety all the more. The life of a pampered socialite was pleasant yet dull, and she often found herself smothered by boredom as much as designer dresses and decadent entrees. Thus by the time she was engaged to Laszlo Tealwing, she knew he could never fulfill her darkest and most shameful fantasies, the ones that excited her the most.

Felton intrigued her, almost as much as he disgusted her, and that made him more of a guilty pleasure than she could have ever imagined. She knew her father had scooped the boy up out of the gutter in his late teens when he and his mother had relocated from St. Canard to Duckburg, and footed the bill for his lowly fake fiberglass eye to be replaced with a state of the art cybernetic laser sighted eye. This was the first amount numerous "improvements" the punk youth had submitted to to be transformed into the ultimate security guard, weapon, personal defender, and if need be, assassin in Scrooge McDucks employment.

In exchange for allowing these changes without so much a peep of protest, Felton's mother, who had some sort of heart condition that, quite frankly, Cashandra found too droll and depressing to bother reading about, had also had her various medical bills and surgeries, including a questionable transplant of illegal origins, provided by McDuck Industries. All under the table and through names of smaller, untraceable shell corporations , ofcourse.

In return, Felton was devoted , heart and soul (if he still retained either) to the McDuck family and unquestioningly would step in front of a bus or a bullet, or run down a puppy or old woman on a walker if need be, we're is to come as a request from his employer, this respect extended to his employers wife, though she never spoke to him save for the occasions murmured "thank you" when he held a door for her, and ofcourse it also extended to Cashandra, whom Felton worshipped from near yet afar, never suspecting his loyalty to Scrooge might come in conflict with his likewise devotion to Scrooge's enchanting daughter.

Felton was mildly taken by surprise a few days before the wedding was to take place when he had been called into the his employers lush office in the mansion. McDuck had has back to him as he sat in his massive leather chair, upholstered in the leathery skin of some rare endangered beast or other, as he skimmed through balance sheets, "Come in and take a seat, lad. I'll not need more than a few moments o' yer time."

"My time is yours as always, Sir," he replied, standing respectfully, back straight, like the soldier he had been trained to be. That training had been more rigorous than any elite marine, packed as it had been into a faction of the time it usually took to train such a highly qualified soldier. When out of his fully encompassing semi bionic suit that covered everything but his bill, Felton was always dressed in a well designed dress shirt and tie, spotless and ironed .

"Aye, it is, but not anymore," the elderly mallard responded, lighting an expensive, imported cigar and inhaling deeply before blowing a smoke ring in the younger man's direction,"You've been a good soldier fer me, boy. I hate ta see ya go."

"Sir?" He tried to keep his face expressionless, even as his pulse shot through the roof. What had he done wrong to be terminated? And surely if he was being let go, with all he'd done and seen over the past years, terminated is exactly what would happen .

"I need ya ta guard my most valuable asset, boy, and odd as it is fer me ta say, it ain't mah money bin I mean fer once. Cashandra's getting married."

Felton stared at him, a mixture of emotions, confusion, dismay, disappointment even though he had never really felt he had a chance with her, warring within him as he racked his brain for the appropriate response,"Congratulations, Sir..."

"Aye, he's a daft one, he is. " Scrooge scoffed, rolling his eyes behind his spectacles, taking another drag off his cigar, " Old Terrence Tealwing's boy. The lad's made himself a pretty penny on this internet business he's started. Bah, computers...supposedly he's a genius at using 'em ta turn a profit but ye wouldn't know it ta speak with him that he has a thought in his head, except for Cashandra. Right taken with her, he is, and ofcourse no fool in his right mind wouldn't be. I have no doubt he'll spend his fortune ta keep her happy, and better him spending his on her than me spending mine. But I don't trust his security in St. Canard worth a shite, and that's why yer going with her. You'll be permanently reassigned as a bodyguard ta her. And don't be worrying about yer ma, I'll cover all the expenses, same as ever, ta have her relocated and situated in St. canard with you. Medical expenses included as always."

If he had had the mind to argue, Felton would have been too busy trying to come to grasp with the concept of being shuttled off back to St. canard to make many valid points.

He suffered from post traumatic stress disorder and more often than not woke from a cold sweat from a nightmare of mixed images: masked men holding him down as they water boarded him for hours, endless sessions of rigorous exercise until his bones seemed ready to break, long hooked spikes going into his face , the image of an enraged Drake Mallard driving the brash knuckles at him seconds before his point of view changed and with a mix of nausea and excruciating pain he found himself at the same time, sharing in two separate directions, both at the face of his attacker with his right eye and the floor swaying below him with his left before the site retreated from that side forever. Now ofcourse, he had his new eye, his red glowing metal encased one that covered much of one side of his face, relaying high definition pixilated and catalogued images back to his brain.

So it was, without protest, he found himself with a suitcase of his meager belongings standing on the runway for Scrooges private plane that would transport himself, a few other employees, and Cashandra to St. Canard.

"Miss McDuck, We're already late," her assistant , a prissy young woman scolded her lightly as she paused next to Felton rather than boarding.

"Just a minute. Please," Cashandra replied in her most patient tone before turning to Felton, placing a delicate hand on his arm," I'm sorry about this. I'm sure it must be an awful inconvience to you...and I know you haven't been able to explain fully to your mother for security reasons until I'm settled why you both have to move...I'm sorry you had to lie to her."

"Miss McDuck.." The assistant gave an impatient sigh then got on the plane when Cashandra gave her a dark look that was both a dismissal and a warning. Apparently it indicated she should not be in the lush main passenger compartment, because Felton noticed she had made herself scarce when they boarded.

This was honestly the most Cashandra had ever said to him in the entire time he had known her, and he was a bit distracted by the fact, almost as much as by his apprehension of the upcoming flight. "Yes. I don't like doing that," he remakes, slowly seating himself.

She smirked, almost playfully as she gracefully smoothed her short thigh length skirt,"Boy Scout, huh?"

"Truth is the only safe ground to stand upon," he remarked from memory, recalling his youth in which, ironically, despite his later delinquency as a teenager, he had spent some early years as a Junior Woodchuck.

She blinked,then laughed,"what was that? Did you just eat a fortune cookie?"

"No, it's a quote. I'm kind of big on quotes," he felt a drop of sweat itching on the back of his neck, unable to stop staring at her long, slender legs and the hints of thigh left bare by her light summer attire. He fumbled with his seatbelt, trying to readjust his attention elsewhere. He ended up looking out the window at the wing of the plain, which was a mistake.

"You don't like planes?" She asked, seemingly amused as he fidgeted.

"I don't trust them. I still don't get why they don't drop," he remarked , wiping his clammy hands on his pants. It was the least professional behavior she'd ever seem from him and it sparked something in her, an idea that took flight as much as the roaring engines indicated they were about to.

"I can tell I'm in for a treat. You must be real fun to sit next to on a flight," she all but purred, a cat playing with a mouse.

"Never been,"

"You've never been on a plane?"

"I'm not trying to put my life in someone else's hands.," he reported a bit shortly.

"That's funny. My whole life's been in someone else's hands..." She smirked a bit bitterly, grinning at the way he dug his fingers into the arm rests. He was actually leaving dents in them. He closed his eyes, almost hyperventilating as he tried to force himself to take slow, even breathed. He didn't comprehend the meaning of the click as she undid her seatbelt or when she moved across the cabin to crouch inform of him, peering up into his tense face.

"Stop the plane..." He breathed, flinching when her curious hand slid across his cheek lightly,"Stop the plane!"

"Felton..." She murmured, standing up as the craft leveled out.

"I mean it, I can't do this," he rasped, still not realizing what was happening until she slipped one leg over his and straddled his lap. His eyes flew open as he stared up at her, his hands automatically moving to her hips to steady her as he found himself scorched through by the heat of her hazel eyes.

She had taken the pins from her hair and it fell in naturally curling long ebony tresses down her back and over her breast, which he was now eye level with. For her part, Cashandra's revulsion at his poverty and low standing as well as his cyborg implants was currently encompassed by desire and a raging, ebbing and rushing sea of lust. She could feel all the tense muscles against her , below her, including one in particular that caused her to smile crookedly in a wicked manner and lean in to whisper in his ear,"I wondered if that particular part of you was still flesh or if they'd removed it to make you more efficient. I guess I know the answer now...and I'm glad..." She delighted in the sharp intake of breath from him as she nuzzled his neck and peppered it lightly with a trail of kisses .

"Cashandra.." Felton groaned, too stunned to focus on his usual manners and addressing her as Ms. McDuck,"What are you..."

"I want you to be my first. I want to be your first. Isn't it perfect this way?" She knew she wasn't his first lover, but she had never been able to escape the watchful eye of her father and nannies enough to try anything this scandalous., and the idea of joining the mile high club, of doing anything so utterly crude with such a base born individual as Felton, who wasn't even entirely a man anymore as much as a machine, thrilled her to no end and ar roused her even more than shed thought possible. It was the utmost rebellious act she could devise and nothing could stop her now. Not that he seemed to want to stop he, she mused with glee as she deftly undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.

Still a bit stunned, Felton recovered just enough to seize her wrists, restricting them almost painfully, which just seemed to thrill her all the more, as she raked her fingers down the combination of black steel plating and six pack muscled that decided his abdomen in half once his shirt was open to her hungry gaze. "Why..?"

She gave him an almost annoyed look, licking her lips as she tried to pull free of his confining grasp,"what?"

"Why me?" He insisted, trying to focus, but hypnotized by the hint of her cleave she could see between the curls of her thick, dark hair and her gossamer low cut dress.

She smirked again, twisting her wrists free and reaching back to undo the knock that held the upper half of the dress in place so it fell away, along with his token protests as he stared at what was now enticing long covered by her long silken tresses. "Because, Boy Scout, I want you," she replied simply as she stifled any other argument with a searing kiss.

After that, there was no more protesting on his part, before or following the wedding. He was her willing slave, frequently blurting out impassioned confessions of love despite the fact she never returned them. Their brazen trysts found increasingly awkward or all but insanely bold locations, including quite frequently in the back of the limousine, in the fitting room for her bridal dress, and other equally crude venues, which seemed to excite her almost as much as slumming with the help.

And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the affair came to a halt and she could not be bothered to spare two words, not so much as a glance in his direction, because her father and her husband were parading her around like a prize show pony, showing off her tiny "bump" and proclaiming her the carrier of a tiny miracle.

Never once did she stop to consider that she was a bad mother, for in truth, she didn't consider herself a mother at all. Not really. It had all been a silly mistake that had cost her almost a full year of her life to get her figure back, and really, she had tried, hadn't she? Yes, most certainly she had both tried to feel something for the child growing within her other than resentment as her feet swelled and her designer fashion wardrobe gathered dust in her massive walk in closet. Vacations and parties missed due to morning sickness and those blasted Doctor appointments where they were always pestering her about proper weight gain and nutrition. Surely that was the most anyone could ask of her, she had tried.

She might not have kept the child at all, were it not for her enjoying the attention that was lavished on her in her "delicate condition" and the delightful photo shoots in the first trimester that proclaimed her as "glowing". Then the weight gain had begun, along with the mood swings and other symptoms and the initial novelty, much like that of the affair, ended. The truth was, she was eager to be free of her tiny burden, whom she resented more with every painful little kick or embarrassing bladder emergency that occurred, and wanted nothing more than to drown out any recollection altogether of this dreary experience in glass of rich Merlot.

Laszlo Teal-wing was beside himself. He was most unhappy that his darling wife was distressed and yet he welcomed the idea of fatherhood as a child does a new toy, never once comprehending the responsibility or unpleasantries, ofcourse. The concept of an heir just seemed to be confirmation that he was completely infallibly on the right path.

The ultrasounds had shown that the small child she was carrying was a girl, and much like a purse pet, Cashandra had settled on the most degrading and trinket like name she could think of. Cee-Cee . Felton despised the name, but he had little say in the matter, whether it was his child or not, ofcourse, just like he had no say in the fact that Cashandra had devoted her attention to an unhealthy amount of physical exercise and a unrealistic diet of herbs and greens to keep her little bump from showing anymore then necessary. The obstetricians tried to reason with her, but she simply refused to willingly gain weight.

So it came as very little surprise that the child was born small. Cashandra insisted on a home birth, refusing to allow anyone the chance to see her in her disheveled state in public. She permitted only a midwife who spoke barely any English , so as not to risk her spreading gossip about her, and a surgeon whom she had paid off to keep quiet present. This was mostly a matter of vanity, because she had never dreamed what would happen when the baby was finally delivered.

The midwife wrapped the squalling thing in a warm blanket and passed her to her mother, who nearly dropped her in shock,"pwhat..what's wrong with it!?" She demanded, dismayed as she stared at the tan plumage and short. Shocks of brown curls.

"Nothing, just some aberrations in her coloring, perhaps due to the nature of your diet during the last trimester," the doctor assured her calmly, but Cashandra knew that wasn't the explanation for her daughters appearance. She knew full well what Felton's mother looked like, and aside from the gaudy teal patches around the baby's stunning hazel eyes, her eyes, this baby was the spitting image of her former lovers mother.

She began to hyperventilate , almost dropping the baby again as she snatched up a glass of water and downed it,"Tell no one of this. NO ONE. And send for my bodyguard immediately."

"But my lady, surely the child's father will want to see her..."

"NO!" She snapped,"Tell him..tell him I'm too tired to se him or anyone else right now, I'm indisposed and can't bare the stress of visitors for now. And get me Blackshell this instant. Both of you get out."

In such a flustered state, she all but threw the crystal drinking glass at them when they departed.

Felton had no clue what to expect as he entered the bedroom, seeing Cashandra looking pale an distraught as she reclined on her nest of pillows.

"Is that her?" He finally asked awkwardly, approaching the bed and gesturing to the small moving bundle laying on it away from the woman. "May I see.." He was cut off abruptly, almost stumbling backwards as the baby was thrust roughly into his arms, causing her to wail.

"Yes, of course that's it. I suppose you find this terribly funny, don't you? Let's all have a big laugh at Cashandra, hardy hair har," she all but shrilled, lighting up a cigarette, heedless of the whimpering child in the room.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Felton began, just as he got his first glimpse of his daughter. He was taken aback, but there was a softness in his gaze," Cash, she looks just like..."

"I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE! " Cashandra spat furiously , sitting up and pointing to the door, "now get it out of here before anyone else sees it!"

"What...what are you...this is our CHILD," he replied hoarsely, disbelieving.

"Not mine, no that common little beast has nothing to do with me. I want it out of here now, and if you think of a minute I'm to be saddled with that...that throwback, you can think again. And don't you dare try to double cross me and go to my father. You think I can't cut you and your mother off from all your benefits, all her expensive medications and health care like that?" She snapped her fingers triumphantly inches from his face.

Felton stared at her, feeling nauseated, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time, as if whatever glamor had hid this ugliness from him had fall apart at last like so many ancient cobwebs crumbling to dust in the wind. It took him a moment to find his voice,"what would you want me to do with her?"

"I'm not the criminal, thats your job," she waved him away, exhausted, "poison it, drown it, bash it in the head with a rock. I don't care how you dispose of the little beast, just do it, and do it now!"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Surely she was insane. " people will find out...you'll go to jail..."

"Ofcourse I won't, I have the best lawyers money can buy, and besides, everyone's going to think that fat pathetic little midwife kidnapped it hoping to ransom it for a fortune, then made some horrid error and killed it. And that's exactly what well tell them. Who would possibly believe her over me? Some filthy illegal immigrant without a dime to her name. " she stubbed out the cigarette , stretching out on her bed,"Now get on with it and get it away from here. I'm simply exhausted and I must be well rested to play the grieving mother for the new paper photographers this afternoon."

He just stared blankly at her for the longest time, then slowly turned and without a word carried the now sleeping baby , wrapped up so she was barely visible unless you stopped to look, in the crook of one arm. No one questioned him or tried to stop him, they all looked right through him. And for the first time he truely understood how low his position was, how expendable he was in the greater scheme of things.

And that was how he came to be standing on the bridge, and then shortly later, on the steps of the orphanage. He carefully placed the child on the steps, knocked firmly until he heard approaching footsteps, then turned and walked down the crumbling cobblestone path back to his bike.

The door opened behind him and he felt eyes on his back, then a female voice called calmly after him, "What's her name?"

He hesitated a step, not turning, not showing his face, reluctant to even answer.

"What's her name? The baby.."

He remembered the pompous, prissy moniker Cashandra had saddled their daughter with during her months of pregnacy. It tasted like offal In his mouth as he tried to speak it,"Cee-Cee..." He grimaced. He couldn't bare to brand the little one with that name, knowing the hardships he'd already inflicted on her just by giving her life. But life was the only thing he could give his daughter. That, and a name. "Her name is Celeste. " He walked away, never looking back.


	5. Chapter 4: Salvation in Unlikely Forms 2

Chapter 3: Salvation in Unlikely Forms Part 2

1987-Nine years later.

Celeste was outnumbered. Actually she was not only outnumbered, but also out-sized and outmatched in strength and age as she glared defiantly up at the older boys who insisted on picking on her. Well she wasn't going to take it, not this time. These punks had it coming and she was going to give it to them. As long as she could remember, she had been fighting to keep her toehold on her insignificant place in the world, from the very day she'd been born a sickly, premature infant, unwanted and unloved, with not so much as a last name to call her own.

Her fierce hazel eyes narrowed as she stepped forward and rolled her fingers into fists. They wee small fists, but already toughened like a seasoned boxers, full of scraps, cuts and bruises, calloused from long hours of scrubbing the floor in the dilapidated old building.

Today was going to be her day, she thought confidently, today they would not win. They would not lock her in the gardeners shed or cut her hair off or tie her to the fence. Today would be the beginning of something new. Today would be different. She just knew it.

Negaduck cruised the streets of his personal own playground, the Negaverse, looking for an opportunity to cause mayhem of some kind. After a few days in the Normalverse, matching wits (HA! That was joke!) with his alter ego, he relished the thick smog of his home world, the crunch of brown dried grass, the thick litter carpeting the highway. He paused as the Troublemaker started to pass the old orphanage, consequently where he'd spent the majority of his childhood years.

As a nine year old child, he'd come to this place with a darkness staining his soul, having witnessed what no child ever should have. The orphanage had done nothing to ease the shadowy hitchhiker of bitterness in him, in fact, it had strengthened it to overwhelming hatred. He still remembered hours of being locked in the janitors closet by the other children with no one but spiders for companionship.

Eyeing the run-down weed overgrown building, he thought off all the times he'd considered blowing up the place. The kids that lived in it would be better off running wild on the street, as far as he was concerned, without the daily beatings and being forced to eat crude he wouldn't feed his attack Dobermans. Well no time like the present, right?

Smiling maliciously, he reached into the infinite folds of his black cape and drew out a polished bomb just begging to be used but before he could hurl it over the seven foot barb wire fence, a shout caught his attention.

A young female duck with cinnamon colored plumage and unruly brown locks of hair falling in her face stood pinned against a craggy wall by two older boys who appeared to be tormenting her. One of them plucked at a curl, yanking a lock of hair from her head while the other one feinted at poking her in the eyes. The girl glared back at the bullies, rolling up the ragged sleeves of her shirt and Negaduck smirked with amusement as he heard her snap, "Okay, who wants some?"

"Bring it on, Brownie," sneered the taller of the two boys as he pulled another lock of her short hair. His eyes widened in shock a split second later when the girl drove her sneakered foot into his shin, making him slump to his knees and whimper in pain. Another kick to the chin sent him sprawling. The second boy tried to grab her and she bit him. Hard. He screamed, flailed and backpedaled wildly as the girl whirled on him, her eyes flashing.

"Don't ever call me that! What are you looking at, you knob? You wanna be next?" she spat at the one of the gathered crowd of rag-tag orphans who had been drawn by the noise and gotten a little too close. The kid shook his head rapidly and she crossed her arms in satisfaction as both of her tormentors scrambled up and took running to safety inside the orphanage. "Jerks! Morons! LOSERS!" she called after them, straightening her ragged clothes as the remainder of spectators gave her a wide berth of space.

Negaduck stifled a low chuckle. This kid had some definite potential. His head jerked up at the gruff voice of the head of the orphanage as she stormed out with the two smug looking bullies in tow. Seeing her again was like an unpleasant flash of de ja vu from his own childhood.

"Are you still LIVING?" Negaduck sneered disdainfully, watching the girl with a hint of pity as she stood in the shadow of the matriarch. The rotund badger's once sleek black fur was now grayer but her hair remained pulled into the same severe bun as she rested her hands on her waist judiciously and glared down at the small miscreant, her trusty yardstick in hand as always.

"Celeste, I should have known. You've been a thorn in my side since your parents abandoned you as a baby." The child flinched, her temper and spirit wilting under the robust badger's stern gaze, wincing just a bit every time she slapped the yardstick against her palm. "There will be NO supper for you, young lady, and your penance for this disruption will scrubbing greasy pans and sweeping the kitchen floor, now off with you!"

"But ma'am, I.." stammered Celeste timidly, only to yelp in protest and fall silent as the badger grabbed her firmly by the arm, sinking old, dull claws into the tender flesh a bit as she drug her inside without another word. The girl's worn in sneakers left skid marks in the almost grassless yard as she stared longingly back at the fence and what lay beyond.

For a second, it seemed, her eyes actually found Negaduck's and locked with his. But that might have just been his imagination, as was the tiny flicker of pity in his cold heart, he assured himself the second the child and her keeper were gone from sight. Scowling, Negaduck revved his motorcycle to life and pulled away from the fence, roaring down the street. But he couldn't seem to drive the image of the free-spirited girl out of his head. She reminded him of someone. Himself.

Celeste sat with her knees drawn up to her chest on her worn bed in the third story room of the orphanage. Her hands were raw and throbbed from scrubbing grime off dishes, not to mention the floor, which the other children had tracked fresh mud over again within minutes of her finishing it. Some gave her looks of regret, most ignored her.

She didn't really have any friends. The few kids she'd formed attachments to were usually the ones that ended up adopted. She'd been through a few interviews but they'd always found some reason to look elsewhere, and the interest in her had waned as the city grew worse and she got older.

Twice she had been placed in foster homes to help care for younger children, but always she outlived her usefulness and wound up back here, discarded. She hadn't warranted so much as a glance in over a year. Sometimes she blamed the color of her plumage. Ordinary, white ducklings seemed to be better favored as opposed to the odd wild mallard.

"You're never going to get adopted, you know that, don't you, Celeste?" Mrs. Blackclaw would say in an exasperated tone time and time again, as if she were not being cruel but meerly imparting a hard fact of like on the uneducated child. It rang truer with each year that passed. Negaverse residents lived hard lives and few had time for their own kin, much less some straggly little waif plucked from the gutter.

Her reverie was interrupted by her stomach growled hungrily as she watched the sun sink into the horizon on the other side of the cracked window pane. She sighed and watched a bird that had been perching on a nearby power-line take flight and soar away, wondering how it would feel to be that free. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been punished for the smallest thing or allowed to actually eat her fill.

Suddenly her hazel eyes gleamed with anewed light. Why shouldn't she be free to go and come as she pleased? She'd run away! Anything had to be better than this, even living on the streets. There were hundreds of criminals out there, more every day, so it couldn't be that hard. She could steal to eat, to live, then someday she'd be rich and she wouldn't have to steal anymore.

She bounced off the bed and tried to pry the window open. It was nailed shut. She strained in effort with no result and dropped to her knees, looking for something to use as a pry bar. Toys were mostly broken dolls and rat chewed stuffed animals here and they were few and far between any so those were no help. She eyed a rusted bed frame and grasp it, attempting to break off part of the railing. It whined and snapped off. She cringed and paused, waiting to see if someone had heard. Minutes passed and no one came to investigate. They were all at dinner still.

Blowing out a breath, she wedged the bar in-between the window and the seal and put all her weight on it, hoping it wouldn't snap again. Luckily, the nails were rusty too and they gave out, dangling from the seal as it lifted like the crooked, cruel teeth of a campfire story monster. That gave her some pause, actually crawling through the monster's mouth, but she shook the thought off and crawled up on the window seal on her knees, stretching out to grab the gnarled branch of a dying tree planted near the side of the building.

It was just out of reach and the window groaned and snowed flakes of rust above her. Her vivid imagination could picture only too clearly the window giving way and driving its monster teeth nails down into her back. Did a person die from tetanus? She shuddered and strained with no result till her arm felt like it would pop out of its socket. One glance down was enough to make her gulp but her determination didn't waver and she drew her legs up under her in a crouch.

Three stories suddenly seemed much taller…suppose she fell? Would they even take her to the hospital? Or just leave her laying there in a mass of broken bones…STOP IT! As an after thought, she reached down and snatched up her only toy, a patched together anteater plush with button eyes no other child would touch whom she had deemed "Turnip" and stuffed him under her shirt, both for safe keeping and for padding in case she did fall. Maybe he'd save her a broken rib or two.

She squeezed her hazel eyes shut, envisioning the branch, and jumped. Flying wasn't as exhilarating as she'd thought. It was weightless, powerless, felt too much like falling…and when she hit the branch it knocked the air clean out of her , padding or no, even as she clung to it for dear life. After a moment the shaking left her limbs as she realized she had made it and she climbed down.

The fence was a far more challenging obstacle. There was no way over without being skewed or between the wires without getting ripped apart. Just when things began looking hopeless she spotted a place where the ground looped down a bit from the bottom of the fence. It wasn't quite big enough to squeeze through but maybe if she made it a bit larger. She knelt and began digging with her hands until she'd deepened it by a third, taking the plush out and pushing him through ahead of her, then froze as she heard the sound of a door opening.

Energized with panic and fear of being caught she shoved her way under the fence and clawed halfway to the other side, only to gasp in pain as the barbed underside of the fence dug into her back. This must be what an animal felt like in a trap. They would find her here, pinned half way under, drag her back and lock her in a closet. She hated that closet, the one that was meant for coats but had nothing in it, just tick marks scratched into the wood representing days spent inside.

Her breath fogged out in front of her and she tensed as she heard footsteps approaching, struggling with the desperation of a rabbit in the jaws of a fox to pull free, ignoring the sharp spikes leaving gashes in her flesh, shredding the back of her clothes to ribbons, then suddenly there was a ripping noise as a chunk of her shirt tore loose and she tumbled free, scrambling to her feet. Snatching up the toy, She started to run without a thought in her head. To where she had no idea but and the exhilaration thus far delayed suddenly poured through her veins, lending her the strength to keep going. She was free!

The Negaverse St. Canard was alive with dark and menacing characters at night. Negaduck breathed in the noxious fumes of pollution and decay as he cruised the city. The Troublemaker purred like an unleashed tiger as he sped past various nightclubs and bars, looking for some action, neon pub signs and gambling advertisements reflecting off the well polished red, yellow and black vehicle.

It had taken him years to rise from a petty pickpocket and lowly common bank robber, but as it turned out, that piece of filth he had called father had done him one good turn after all. He knew weaponry inside out and upside down. His memory was nothing shy of astonishing, and hours of lessons on explosives and firearms, despite his mother's disapproval, had stuck with him, allowing him to barter or steal an impressive array of destructive tools, then upgrade not only his heists but his cache of weapons to one that now rivaled those of the armies of some small countries, nuclear warheads included.

Thanks to his temper, his emerging bloodthirsty mannerisms, and a smashing wardrobe that was instantly recognizable wherever he went, the city now cowered at his webbed feet. No longer did people sneer at him or look down on him. Now they grove led and were afraid to even meet his fierce midnight blue gaze. It was good to be the supreme leader, despite some of the more annoying city occupants such as…

"Negerooni! How's it shakin', bud?"

He rolled his eyes as he pulled the Troublemaker over to one side, resisting the urge to simply run over the duck in a black leather bomber's jacket with various tattoos approaching him. ~Speak of the Devil...~ he thought, but out loud he growled. "What d'you want, Blackshell?"

Felton Blackshell, obviously drunk, disheveled, and a downright mess following his former employers death and his subsequent dismissal by his former lover, had lost all but the vaguest sense of self preservation as he leaned on the fanged duck face of the Troublemaker, his single good eye and red laser optic peering up at the other mallard, a foul smelling cigar poking out of one corner of his mouth as he grinned, "That ain't a very charitable attitude to take. Can't a guy say hi to his oldest buddy without wanting something?"

Though he had been a big shot a few years back, now Felton was little more than a two bit hood with some fancy tech to back him up but no brains behind it. He would never aspire to the heights of the Negaverse's supreme lord and master, though he might try. In his deluded little node of a mind, maybe he even considered himself a cohort of Negaduck, as if their shared and strained past had bonded them in some perverse way. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"What. Do. You. Want." Negaduck repeated through gritted teeth, his temper straining. Of all the Negaverse occupants, even the Friendly Four didn't annoy him half as much as Blackshell, alias Destructoduck. What a knob. Even looking at him now, in this fallen state, trying to look tough by spiking his head feathers into a mohawk and tattooing what little flesh he had left that hadn't been replaced with tarnished metal, he was in Negaduck's eyes, a pathetic sham. If he hadn't had bigger fish to fry in the Normalverse, he would have exterminated this pest long ago, but compared to some, Destructoduck was a mere nuisance, a fly buzzing around his head while he was focusing on fumigating for poisonous spiders. Perhaps he had left him alive only for the sake of the fact that he was an easy target to take his anger out on when things didn't go as he'd planned. He was starting to regret his "charitable" attitude.

Felton clicked his tongue admonishingly and to Negaduck's further outrage, he put his cigar out on the side of the motorcycle, breathing a smoke ring in Negaduck's general direction with the misguided ease of someone who believed them-self untouchable. "Easy there, Negsy. Don't wanna raise yer blood pressure none."

"Why you...!" This was more than he could take. Recent events in the Normalverse had him on a thin leash as it was. Now it snapped clean. The black masked mallard lunged at the other duck and struggled to get his hands around his neck, attempting to throttle him. Felton gagged and tried to fend off his attacker as Negaduck shoved him face first into the concrete and started beating his head against the road. Neither of them noticed the little girl peeking around the corner at them curiously.

Her feet were killing her and Celeste knew she'd have to stop soon to rest. She'd made it into the urban city, a small girl trudging among huge skyscrapers without a clue as to what to do next, that is until her attention was captured by a struggle between two adult mallards. The shorter one in the gaudy cape and hat was trying to strangle the punkish looking one with a purplish dyed mohawk and studded jacket and boots. The taller duck was more muscular, but he was drunk, and though she had no way of knowing it, more than a match physically for his foe in training, but the inner rage of the shorter masked duck produced an insane super human strength that gave him a decisive advantage as he bounced his victim's head off the sidewalk like a basketball viciously.

She glanced around and noticed the fancy motorcycle that, apparently from its coloring, belonged to the one in the mask. Whoever he was he was obviously pretty well off, maybe even lived in a mansion . A mansion with servants and soft pillows and food. If she tagged along with him she'd surely find something to eat and a decent place to take a nap out of the cold. Presuming he didn't beat her to a bloody pulp like the punk. She was confident, though, that her years in the orphanage had provided her with two vital skills to avoid that though: How to duck a blow and run fast.

Without a second thought she scurried over next to the vehicle and managed to crawl into the sidecar. It was hard but warm and clean. Taking Turnip out of her shirt to use as a pillow, she closed her eyes and instantly dozed off, feeling safe for the moment, despite the sounds of a beating taking place nearby.

"Ruin my new paint job, will you?" Negaduck fumed as he stood on the fallen duck's back, purposely driving his heal into tender places. Every groan was a symphony to his ears. He could almost imagine this was how it would feel to pummel his arch-rival or even the man who had made him this way. But Blackshell was no substitute for that kind of satisfaction and the image shattered, leaving him even more bitter than before.

He scowled at the useless loser and jammed his heel into the back of his neck one last time before stomping back to the Troublemaker, turning it on and running over Fenton once more for good measure. "See ya, De-SUCK-O-SMUCK," he taunted.

Driving at a reckless speed that sent pedestrians scurrying, he entered the suburban section of the city and pulled up into the garage of a modest but ill-cared for house that had once been yellow and now looked gray. The throbbing death metal music making his walls shake alerted him that the Muddlefoots, his next door neighbors, were having another of their ever popular barbacues. He listened for screams, wondering what poor knob had found himself tied to the grill tonight.

Dim-witted though they were, on occasion he invited himself over to enjoy the festivities because few Negaverse inhabitants could hold a candle to his own malicious black humor, and the Muddlefoots came closest. Well, them and Morgana Macawber. He shuddered and made a face, sticking his tongue out at that particular flicker of reminiscence and vowing never to become romantically entangled again, at least not with a witch for sure. A shrill cry of agony split the humid air, followed by Herb Muddlefoot's offish laughter.

"I'm surrounded by idiots," he grumbled as he slid off the seat and bent to check the burn on the smooth red bill of his cycle, rubbing at with his jacket sleeve but getting no results and snarled. "Losers, morons, knobs, all of them! Next time I run into that reject for a mental institution Blackshell, I'll..." He trailed off, seizing a rusted crowbar from a nearby rack festooned with such crude weaponry and bent it in half, seething, and then tossed it away behind him.

The crowbar clanged off the edge and landed in the sidecar of the Troublemaker, inciting an indignant yelp that caused him to stop dead in his tracks. He whirled around and whipped out a bazooka miraculously from the depths of his seemingly infinate cape, stalking around to the sidecar, aiming the weapon, "Alright, whoever you are come out and get your tail feathers toasted and I might make it quick."

Celeste slowly peered over the edge of the sidecar and smiled nervously, waving, "Uh...hi..."

Negaduck's jaw dropped as the barrel of the weapon wavered and lowered ever so slightly. "You! Yer that kid from the orphanage! But what the pit are you doing here! In MY motorcycle!"

"I, um…ran away," she admitted sheepishly, climbing out to stand next to him. She barely reached his chest and had to crane her neck back to look up at him, her hazel eyes wide and innocent under a tuft of curly chestnut hair. She was far too cute, almost nausiatingly so.

"Yeah? Well you can just turn around and run right back," he spat coldly, whirling and storming into his house, slamming the door. He shook his head and muttered under his breath in disbelief. Kids these days, what did she expect him to just invite her in for milk and cookies?

He leaned against the door, relaxing as the familiar smell of gunpowder and burnt barbecue wafting over from the Muddlefoots' side of the fence washed over him. Now he could retire to his den for some soothing target practice…

Someone knocked at the door and he turned sharply with growing annoyance, yanking it open, "WHAT? What do you want?" he demanded, only to stumble back as she ran past him into the living room and hoped on the couch, looking around in wonder. "Doh." he growled, slapping his forehead before following her. Maybe he could call Honker over and have him drag the little nuisance off as an entree to tonight's cook out.

"Wow, you have more stuff than a gun show!" she exclaimed, admiring walls upon walls decorated with gun racks before scooping up a stick of dynamite from an end table and turning it over in her hands with fascination.

Negaduck snatched the explosive away, putting it on a shelf as the girl moved on to admire a chainsaw, one of many models displayed in the room. "Look, You pint sized pest, I'm Negaduck, as in Lord of the Negaverse, Master of Menace, King of Crime, I don't make friends, I can stand kids, and I completely despise cute. Hey, hey, whatever your name is, are you listening to me?"

"Celeste," she replied, turning a bright smile to him and bounced off the couch. Her dirty sneaker prints were utterly invisible in the already thick coat of dirt on the seat. "I'm nine years old, and I've been living in the orphanage since I was born. But that place is a drag, all they do is punish me or send me to my room. I've pretty much given up on being adopted, everyone thinks I'm a problem child, so I figured I'd just have to get myself out and here I am! So you're Lord Negaduck? That explains the fancy motorcycle, but I always figured you'd have a nicer house…" All this was said in such an exuberant rush his beak snapped shut as he paused to process it before shaking his head, more annoyed than ever at being momentarily distracted.

As he was about to respond, the door slammed open and a tall white-feathered duck with a red ponytail in army fatigues came in, dumping a bag of toys on the floor as he tracked mud into the house. The carpet had seen far worse in its day and barely showed the new footprints. "Found more of that dumb Quackerjack's …hey, who's the brownie?" he asked with disdain, bending down half his height to sneer at the girl. For a moment, the image in front of him reminded Negaduck of a Krampus Day card, the hulking leering demon of a duck hunched over the small, fearful that moment abruptly ended.

Instantly the once meek and mannerly little duckling transformed into the firecracker Negaduck had seen back behind the barbed wire. Her eyes narrowed and clenched her teeth, "What did you call me?" Suddenly her small foot shot out and drove a well-placed, solid kick into the big mallard's kneecap, making him shriek in pain and hop up and down on one foot.

Even Negaduck's eyes widened. He'd never seen anyone quite so small with so much spunk and courage in his life. Although he wouldn't admit it a small amount of approval for the kid had formed inside him. Not that that mattered, because now his former school mate and current dullard underling was looking to roast the brat alive.

Having recovered, Launchpad stalked toward the girl with the intent of beating a lesson into her clear on his face. He dug in his pocket and located a nasty looking switchblade, flicking it open with a practiced twist. Negs had seen him skin more than one cat alive before and he had a rather clear image in his head of what was about to occur." Why you little…"

The girl paled and dodged around behind Negaduck, her fingers tangling in his cape. He sighed loudly, in no mood to the circle point for a bloody game of "ring around the caped criminal". Besides, Launchpad was so clumsy and stupid he might end up shredding Negaduck's own attire by mistake in attempt to turn the tiny terror into a kabob.

He glanced over his shoulder and stiffened at the sight of her pleading eyes staring up at him, resurrecting long buried memories of a similar situation. She was just the age he had been, when he'd lost his mother. Maybe that was why his throat suddenly felt dry and he swallowed twice before croaking out, "Leave her alone, Launchpad."

"Huh?" Launchpad looked up in surprise at Negaduck. He couldn't possibly be serious. Negaduck usually encouraged Launchpad to take out his violent tendencies on helpless victims. What was so special about this little street rat that made her exempt from becoming another one of his craving projects?

"I said leave her be," Negaduck repeated in a more steady, oddly claim voice, one that Launchpad knew meant he was not to be questioned under penalty of death. The black masked duck nodded in satisfaction as his minion stepped back then wagged a finger at Celeste until she stepped back around to face him, reluctantly releasing her hold on his cape. He stared down at her with calculating midnight blue eyes, his gravely voice like a rumble of distant thunder, "Your name is Celeste, right?" She nodded, gulping. "Well Celeste, you've proven yourself to be a bigger pain in the tail feathers than I would have thought. That's promising. Also, you made me laugh. You can stay for the night. But that's all,"

Celeste beamed and suddenly threw her arms around his waist, hugging him. He blinked and looked down at her, confused, but didn't shove her away. Immediately, anyway. He wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

Shaking off the nagging feeling that he'd been outsmarted by a toddler, he dragged Launchpad into the kitchen for a debriefing, noting each and every sound that occurred in the living room behind him, mostly because he was unused to turning his back on anyone, especially an unwanted visitor to his home, but also because his "sidekick" was repeatedly looking over top of his head and glowering in a baneful way at the little girl before he dismissed him firmly and sent him off to his own filthy hanger shed.

Reentering the room he found that Celeste had made a cozy little nest for herself on the couch out of spare moth-eaten blankets he kept in the coat closet for the frequent nights in the Winter when the electricity went out. She had a moth eaten plush of some animal he couldn't identify tucked in next to her."Goodnight, Lord Negaduck!" She called after him sweetly enough to make him grind his teeth as he started up the rickety stairs.

He turned to eye her then a wicked grin split his bill,"Nighty Nightmare, don't let the bed bugs bite.." he sing-songed evilly as he backed up the stairs, dropping his voice to a stage whisper full of malice," Because there are literally thousands of them. And cockroaches just waiting for the lights to go out. Oh, and there's probably someone watching you from that window while you sleep.." he added with a manical laughter, more than a little satisfied to see her pull her legs up against her chest protectively as her widened eyes darted to said window. He flipped the switch off with relish, plunging the downstairs area into total darkness as he swaggered to his room. No, he hadn't lost his edge. Not at all.

Negaduck grumbled as he rolled out of bed the next day. It was well after noon but still too bright and cheery for his taste. The customary gray smog clouds had split to give the sun a temporary reprive and it almost instantly gave him a headache. He pulled on a black and red bathrobe over his nightwear (which consisted of a pair of skull and cross-bone boxers) then tied on a black mask before stumbling down the stairs. The first thing he took into notice was that the couch, a worn, dirty maroon piece of furniture with springs and stuffing sticking out where Celeste had slept last night, was deserted and the lumpy pillow and thin blanket she'd used were neatly stacked and folded at one end. He could almost make out the outline of where she'd laid in the dirt. Shaking his head he entered the kitchen and stopped cold, seeing a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon already waiting for him. "What in the…"

"Oh you're awake!" Celeste beamed and jumped down from the sink where she'd been standing to wipe the grime off a window and grabbed his hand, ushering the stunned super villain to a chair where he sat numbly, looking at his breakfast. "Hope I got everything right. I figured you'd take yer coffee black."

He blinked, snapping out of his shock and looked at the jabbering little child, narrowing his eyes. As she turned to get him some toast, he grabbed her arm, holding her back and making her look up into his suspicious eyes, "What are you up? Are you trying to bribe me into letting you stay, cause let me tell you something, short stuff, it ain't gonna work. I can smell a scheming mind a thousand miles away..."

"Actually that's the toast you're smelling, it's burning," she replied without missing a beat and smiled as she felt his fingers go lax at her answer before going to fetch the toast and bringing it back to him on a saucer with a cube of butter, then hoping up in a chair across from him, her cheery expression never wavering as she swung her legs back and forth under the table, the tips of her shoes barely touching the floor. "And I was just trying to be nice. You let me stay here for a night so I thought I'd return the favor and help you out a bit, this house needs a feminine touch, you know. Oh, there's the laundry, be right back!"

Negaduck choked and had to stifle a snort of amusement as she leapt off her chair and ran down to the basement. He shrugged and took a swig of coffee. The kid wasn't so useless after all. He blinked as she tugged a laundry basket up the stairs that was almost bigger than her and stood on a stool to get the ironing board out of the kitchen closet that was so unused it still had the plastic on it covered with an inch thick of dust. Removing the covering, she filled the iron with hot water and set to work on one of his capes, humming as she contentedly worked every tiny crease out.

Silence fell awkwardly, interrupted by the soft hisses of puffs of steam and the crunching of him chewing the bacon. Finally he cleared his throat, meaning to say something sarcastic. "Uh, you don't have to do that, you know," he muttered, surprising himself.

"Oh I know!" She smiled at him in a way that made him feel an alien trickle of warmth inside before he squashed it out firmly like a cockroach. She finished the cape and hung it on the knobby handle to a cabinet. "But I want to, you've been really nice to me, especially since I didn't know who you were and all, Lord Negaduck."

"Yah, about that," he commented sourly, sounding annoyed as he downed the rest of the coffee, "Exactly what are they teaching you in that place that you wouldn't know the Supreme Ruler of the Negaverse on sight? I may have to pay Old Lady Blackclaw a visit and make it a point to mention that..."

Celeste shrugged as she bent over to grab another jacket, "Teach? Oh she doesn't teach us anything but the three P's: Punishment, Pain and Penance." She straightened up and grimaced in agony as the gashes she'd received from the barbed wire the other day sent spikes up her back.

"That sounds like her," he agreed, his voice dripping disdain in remembrance of going through the exact same ordeal before he'd left that place for the last time, and never gone back, then he frowned as he noticed her look of discomfort. His eyes narrowed suspiciously,"What?"

She blushed, brushing it off, as she folded one of his capes on a coat hanger, "Oh, it's just some scrapes I got from the fence."

He rolled his eyes and stood, nodding to the doorway leading into the second bathroom. "C'mon, let's take a look at those. They might get infected and I don't want to have to spend a fortune on hospital bills when I take you back. Or anyone thinking if I cut you up myself, I was that sloppy about it. I'm nothing if not an artist when it comes to inflicting agony," he stated manner of factly, digging through his grimy medicine cabinet. With as many firefights as he participated in, his pantry may have been close to empty, but his first aid kit was always fully stocked. It paid to be prepared.

Laying everything out in order like a skilled field medic, he gestured to the closed toilet resolutely,"Alright, short stuff, let's see the damage. If you're lucky, it'll scar up good. "

She blinked, looking confuse as she sat on the closed toilet seat, rolling up the back of her shirt carefully, wincing when it stuck to the dry blood. "Lucky?"

"Heck yeah, kid. Wusses get tattoos. Bad asses have scars." He smirked at her bewildered expression, plucking several short brown feathers out of the tender cuts, swollen and reddened by infection. This rugrats was going to need a whole series of tetanus shots.

"I think tattoos are pretty cool. Artwork that last your whole life, that you carry with you everywhere. It means something. Why would an ugly old scar be better that a colorful tattoo?" She asked, sucking in a breath and holding it as he poured hydrogen peroxide over the slashes, watching it bubble out the infection with a soft sizzling sound.

"Because tattoos, kid, are something you choose to get when you're feeling cocky or drunk. But scars are something you survive, something that make makes you smarter, faster, and stronger in the long run," he replied smearing a generous coating of antibiotic on the wounds before he began applying bandages

Celeste squirmed slightly but to her credit refused to utter a peep of protest, considering his words," You must have a whole ton of scars then, Lord Negaduck, Sir."

"Heh, you have No idea, kid. " he grinned smuggly, tucking the back of her shirt down. The smirk shifted into a scowl at the condition of filthy garment, covered with holes, which left dirt on the white feathers of his finger tips. Not exactly something even he liked to see a kid in. "Hang on, I've got something for you." He disappeared into an extra room he used for storage and came back with a gray tee shirt a few sizes larger than hers baring the red image of a chalked body outline, "Here, put this on, it was mine when I was a kid. I don't want you getting dirt all over my couch," He added, trying to sound gruff even though it was a ridiculous notion since the entire house was plagued with dirt and dust.

She hesitantly took the garment, then ducked into the spare room and came out a minute later switched into the shirt which was a bit long and baggy on her but to her was akin to silk. She grinned up at him as she tucked it over her faded jeans and turned in a circle for him to check.

He nodded in approval, and then cleared his throat, "Well I have crimes to commit and such so…" He trailed off. So, what was he going to do with the kid? He looked at the clock. His little stint as Florence Nightingale had cost him time, and he had things to do on the other side of the portal. The orphanage was on the opposite side of town, well out of his way. Returning her right now would cost him at least one bank robbery or public property defacement. He settled on on a decision abruptly, but not without some misgivings. "DON'T touch anything, got it? Especially anything with a blade or bullets and, uh, make sure you have dinner waiting when I get back, ...there's stuff in the freezer. It better not have frozen chunks in it when I take a bite...or I'll stuff you in the freezer."

She blinked as he walked off to get dressed, perplexed."I thought you were taking me back to the orphanage today?"

He paused halfway up the creaking staircase, thinking rapidly, and then turned to face her, hardening his look into a long suffering scowl. "You can stay ONE more night but I better not hear any complaints when I take you back tomorrow or you'll find out why everyone is more scared of me than the grim reaper, understand?"

Celeste smiled broadly, then forced herself to look serious, standing up straight, and nodded. " Yes, Sir. Got it."

He rolled his eyes and muttered a string of curses under his breath before going up to his room, dressing in his full on double breasted yellow suit jacket, red turtleneck, trademark fedora, and cape. After a final once over in the mirror he stomped back downstairs without another word and stalked out to the garage, gunning the Troublemaker to life and backing out at full speed. He let loose a maniacal cackle as he backed into some poor slub's painted up mailbox, leaving it in a crumbled mess on the ground, then. Pressed the gasped doe all the way to the floor and rocketed off down the street in the wrong lane.


	6. Chapter 4: Salvation in Unlikely Forms 3

Chapter 3: Salvation in Unlikely Forms Part 3

Celeste listened as he zoomed away, then eyed the house thoughtfully, spying various ways to busy herself. If there was one thing she was adept at, it was cleaning. Naturally there were no conventional supplies to be found such as dusting spray or even a mop but she made due with rags she found in a discard pile in the basement, mostly old civilian style clothes which he never wore anymore. The thick layer of dust made her choke and her eyes water and she had to run the water in the sink for ten minutes before it came out clean rather than rust colored. Then she was down on her knees scrubbing away at the kitchen floor. It took three shirts to get it near something resembling clean.

Launchpad thankfully didn't make a second appearance throughout the day, though she did have a run in with a yellowish rude gosling from next door whom she sent packing back to his apparently loud and ill-mannerly family. Smoke wafted over the fence as she hug rags out to dry on a makeshift clothes line she rigged with what appeared to be a steel able and barb from a harpoon gun. She risked peeking. Over the barrier and was treated to the sight of what appeared to be shrunken heads ands a blazing barbecue . Following this unpleasant discovery , she decided NOT to leave the house any more than necessary.

After finishing what laundry she could find she went in search of more. The stairs creaked as if in warning when she climbed them and she hesitated halfway up then steeled herself and pushed on, gathering up an armful of items from the master bathroom before venturing into the adjoining bedroom.

It was very dark, curtains pulled closed to create an eternal artificial night, and no personalization at all. Everything was a matching, foreboding black from the bed sheets and comforter down to the plush rugs on the floor and the lamp shade. It reminded her of entering a cave. She resolved to strip the bedding down quickly and make as little disturbance to the room as possible. She couldn't recall ever having her own room, but if she had she was sure she wouldn't want some stranger poking around in it.

She would have done just that if a glimmering hadn't caught her eye. The tiniest ray of light had crept in through a parting in the curtains and reflected off something dangling from the bedside lamp. She took a cautious step closer, then one more. A shimmering golden cross necklace with a single clear blue gem set in the middle hung with almost a reverence from the shade of the dusty lamp. It bore no gaudy inscriptions or designs, elegant alone in its simplicity, untarnished and well cared for, the sort of adornment only a true lady could wear, Celeste knew, though she'd never beheld anything like it before.

Below the necklace the corner of something white protruded from the nightstand drawer. She bit her lip, fighting an inner war with herself, then carefully slid the drawer open and removed the photograph. It was very old, but like the necklace, cherished, well cared for. In the photo, a beautiful white duck with long, curly blonde hair that fell around her shoulders and velvety dark blue eyes peered back at her, making her momentarily catch her breath. She had never believed in angels, but if angels were as beautiful as everyone said, surly this was one captured in print. She felt a strange warmth and sense of safety fill her, just looking at the lovely woman.

Perched on the angel's lap was a young white feathered mallard just her age with eyes just the same, deep blue gems as the woman's. She knew those eyes, had seen them recently glaring at her from behind a black mask. So Lord Negaduck had once had a mother. She wondered what had happened to her.

There was a hand on his shoulder and the hint of an arm wrapped around the woman but whoever they belonged to was lost as the upper left corner of the picture had been savagely ripped off. She carefully replaced the picture, propping it up by the lamp on the bedside stand then gathered up the bundle of laundry and hurried out, feeling liked she'd become privy to something she had no right to know.

When the laundry was churning away in the unbalanced washer she located a bucket and a worn out brush, trudging up the stairs to the living room. The fireplace had such a buildup of ash it took her five trips carrying the cinders out in the bucket to get down to the bricks underneath. She wiped at her forehead, leaving a streak of soot across it, and then paused as she swept the last of the ashes into the bucket.

A curled piece of paper stood out amid the black mess and she fished it out. It was the well singed and darkened corner of an old photo. She didn't have to race back up the stairs and compare it to know she'd found the missing portion of the family portrait, or to know who the strongly built mallard with the stern expression and heavy brows was. He pierced her from years in the past with green eyes like sea ice, his bill curved into a permanent scowl.

Despite the obvious knowledge that Negaduck in no way wanted this fragment of his past, in fact, loathed it so much that he wanted to burn it out of his life, she found herself unable to simply throw the scrap away and instead folded it and tucked it in her back pocket. With the same tufted cheeks and distinctive bill, he looked eerily like Negaduck. She had no memories of her own family, just the vaguest ghosts of them, and the idea of throwing one's family away bothered her deeply in a way she couldn't explain.

She put it out of her mind and went back to work. The house was barely recognizable by the time late afternoon rolled around and she started in one dinner. Nothing too special, macaroni and cheese with sandwiches was one of the few things she knew how to make without setting off a fire. It stuck to the pan but otherwise came out well, and she managed to pick apart the veggies and find pieces that weren't rotted enough to make a decent four sandwiches.

After putting the laundry away there was little to do but sit and wait. And wait. And watch the macaroni grown cold as her stomach rumbled. It didn't feel right to eat without him. She rested her folded arms on the table and let her face fall forward onto them. It was Midnight before she lifted her head again, presuming the clock's battery hadn't died and not been replaced.

Celeste arched her stiff back and stood up. Something fell in the garage with a resounding THUD. She blinked and dropped down behind a chair, looking for something to use as a weapon. Of all the luck! Someone was breaking into the most feared duck's house in the world when he wasn't home and she was!

She reached up and located a freshly cleaned butcher knife and crept towards the door to the garage, keeping the makeshift weapon handy. Her hand closed around the knob and she took a deep breath, one, two, then jerked the door open. The troublemaker was in the garage, still clicking as the engine cooled. Crimson streaks of blood marred the paintjob and she dropped the knife, her eyes widening. She hurried around the vehicle and found Negaduck laying where he'd fallen, his cape shredded with bullet holes, his yellow double breasted jacket strained as red as the sweater underneath.

"Oh God…oh…" she dropped to her knees, taking his head in her hands, "Lord Negaduck?"He coughed and squinted at her, as if momentarily having forgotten who she was and why she was here. "I...I'll call an ambulance…"

"No!" he grabbed her slender wrist as she started to get to her feet pulling her back, "No ambulances, no doctors, no one else. " He gritted out and it clicked in her head. No one else but a rare few actually knew where he lived and he didn't trust even them, not in his weakened state. If they were all like Launchpad, they wouldn't hesitate to finish him off in attempt to take his place of power.

"Gotta call Viscera.." He muttered under his breath, too low for her to understand. He was too disoriented to tell her to go to the desk in his study and get the book with his emergency contacts in it.

"Call who?" She asked, still dismayed, but he just tried to push her away, trying to claw his way to his feet with little success.

"You heard me, no ambulances.." He growled out, then collapsed again, the would spinning, hitting his head on the concrete floor.

"But I don't know what to do!" she squeaked out, looking around frantically, then grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him toward the door to the house set by step, leaving a bloody trail the whole way. He was twice her size, and the going was slow and difficult. Her eyes narrowed in determination as she inched him along, grinding her teeth in effort. When his back hit the step up into the kitchen Negaduck blacked out from pain.

He came to half an hour later on the kitchen floor laying on his stomach while the kid used some hefty tweezers from the first aid kit he'd used earlier to pull bullets out of his back, dropping them one by one into a bowl with a soft ping before proceeding to dig out another one.

"Ouch! Take it easy!" he yelped loudly and she jumped.

"I'm NINE, I'm doing my best!" she protested as she covered the fresh wounds with disinfectant and taped gauze over them. He grumbled in response but didn't try to move again till she announced she was done. He rolled over and sat up, squinting at the skinny girl whose hands and clothing were now stained with blood, but she seemed steady if a bit shaken. He knew adults, several adults, who wouldn't have handled something this jarring so well. The kid had steel in her under all that fluff.

It almost made him regret taking her back. A child who had been abandoned by those meant to care for her, the people she should have been able to trust, and yet she still had compassion in her for someone she'd only just met, a known felon, and a tyrant. They'd beat it out of her soon enough, leave her just the way they had him, full of bitterness and anger and suspicion. If only… NO. He slammed the door on that thought. His lifestyle was unsuitable for a child, no matter how remarkable, how accepting, that child might be. She would be in constant danger, always under foot. And the core reason being of course, he knew what being a father brought about. It was in his blood.

Resolved, he used a chair to get to his feet, ignoring her attempts to help him. "This place is a mess…" he remarked, eyeing the blood smears on the floor.

She frowned and put her hands on her hips, suddenly righteously indignant inspire of what she had just witnessed and who she was addressing "Well that's not my fault! What did you do, rob a bank?"

He snickered at that, "No, I broke into a secret agency to cut someone's throat…" he leered at her as her eyes widened, "Does that startle you? Does it make you want to wet your little baby diapers, Princess? Are you starting to miss the nice safe orphanage with its routine and your warm little beddyby where you curl up with your wittle teddy bear at 10 o'clock on the dot and no worries of anyone staggering in riddled with bullets?"

Celeste blinked, unphased, infact, looking vaguely annoyed, and a tad like she felt herself to be more the adult in this situation than he was, Firstly, No, I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you. It seems like you need me here to patch you up when you do dumb stuff like getting shot. Secondly, he's not a teddy bear. He's an anteater."

He rolled his eyes, mimicking her moodily, as he hobbled over to the sink, running himself a glass of water and taking several long gulps before he turned on her, fed up with her boldness. Pluck and gumption only carried so far before it became sass, and he wouldn't tolerate sass in his own home. He might very well finish the job Launchpad intended to start last night, " Let's get this straight, alright, you little pile of pillow stuffing. I'm not a charity case, I'm a super villain. I'm LORD Negaduck. I don't need anyone, kid. I work alone, I live alone, and I. Like. It. Just. Fine. That . Way." He poked her firmly in the chest to punctuate the last few words, making her stumble back.

"You don't seem like you like it very much," she replied softly, barely above a whisper, looking at her feet, then casting her gaze around the dimly lit kitchen, "You're too busy to take care of yourself so everything gets dirty…"

He stuck his bill in her face, poking her in the chest again, driving her back against the counter, "I like dirt, I like darkness, I like chaos and disorder and mayhem, and I like coming home to peace and quiet, not some nagging little runt clamoring for attention, so tomorrow, you're going back to the orphanage where you belong and everything around here will go back to normal. We can both get on with our lives, and that's final…"

BOOM! The west wall of the kitchen exploded, raining debris down on them as Negaduck instinctively , for reasons he couldn't fathom, wrapped his cape around Celeste to shield her from the brunt of it. In the massive hole in the wall towered a dark figure bristling in black spiked armor and weapons of destruction. A dark purple visor covered the majority of his face but Celeste recognized the nasal voice of the punkish duck from the day before.

"The doorbell was broken so I thought I'd just let myself in…" Destructoduck taunted, grinning as he looked around, "Nice digs, Negsy. I think I saw it on the cover of "Better Condemned Eyesores and Roach Motels."

"Just what I don't need, the comic relief. Get lost, Blackshell," Negaduck growled, his voice dripping hatred, still shielding the girl behind him. He silently cursed himself. How had he been so distracted by his injuries that he'd allowed this villain wannabe to follow him back to his personal dwelling? It was an oversight that was far beneath him.

"We have a score to settle, Negadork," the armored mallard grinned maliciously, his breath reeking of alcohol, brandishing what looked like a cannon on one arm aimed at them. Had he been sober, Felton might have let the confrontation and humiliation from the day before go. It was just another relatively small nail in the titanium reenforced coffin that had become his life, a consistent downward spiral. But he had liquor fueling his fury, and it had brought back the memory of losing his eye, like a throbbing migraine that refused to abate. So rather than back down, he had collected his armored suit and set out to punch back for once. His drunken rampage was only put on hold a moment by the realization that the Lord of the Negaverse was not alone. " And what's this? You have a pet!"

Celeste stuck her beak out fearlessly, her eyes narrowed. Without an ounce of hesitation, she brandished the kitchen knife she had held Get lost, ya knob! Or we'll make quick work of you."

He burst out laughing in a very unpleasant way, "How sweet! But don't worry, pip-squeak, it won't be hasty at all. After all you're apparently my arch enemy's little bundle of sickening pride and joy. I plan to make your demise loooong and excruciatingly PAINFUL!" He fired a rocket at them and Negaduck threw himself to the ground on top of Celeste, shielding her with his body. Amid a shower of wall fragments he reached for a weapon, any of the numerous ones in the house and located a rifle hanging low on one wall, practically pulling the rack down with it as he jerked it free and opened fire on his enemy.

Destructoduck skidded back a foot with each round, dented but still dangerous as he returned fire with a flamethrower built into his chest armor, setting an arm chair and much of the living room ablaze as Negaduck rolled for cover behind the couch, dragging Celeste with him. He snarled in frustration, unable to use any of his trade mark explosives as they might bring the rest of the house down on their heads and settled for snatching a set of throwing star off the wall and chucking them at the oncoming foe, then small metal weapons making dull thunks as they lodged in the black armored she'll, "You better hope that pompous tin plating or yours is insured, because when I'm done scraping you out of it, there won't be enough left to make a can of tuna!"

Celeste peered up at him with wide eyes and he glanced at her, rubbed his forehead in annoyance, then gritted his teeth before lunging for a chainsaw on the coffee table, revving the machine to life as he threw himself at the other mallard, the rotating teeth of the power tool throwing off sparks as they sank into black armor. Destructoduck staggered back, momentarily caught off guard, and then drove a fist into the masked mallard's wounded side, making him double over in pain. This punch was followed by a second one, and a third to his bill that sent him staggering back, wounds reopened and bleeding through his yellow suit jacket.

That might have been the end of the fight, the end of the Lord of the Negaverse then and there, in the weakened state he was, compromised by his injuries, when a gauntlet closed around his thin neck. And his only regret was that he , he thought, as his vision started to darken at the edges even as he tried to pry the fisted fingers from his throat, was that he had never avenged the one person that truly cared for him...

It might have been the end... But Destructoduck wasn't expecting a surprise attack from behind. Celeste threw herself on his back, battering him with a crowbar in the face where his only vulnerable areas were. Once, twice, three times she struck him across the bill till he tasted his own blood then she sank her teeth into the side of his scrawny tattooed neck. His visor shattered into sharp indigo shards that littered the thread bare carpet, some of them driven into the top of his beak. Yowling in pain, enraged, he grabbed her, jerking her free though she took a good chunk of feathers with her that scattered in the air. He lifted her easily to eye level the savagely flung her away. Celeste's head struck the wall and she slid down to the scorched floor in a heap like a broken marionette with its strings cut.

Time froze then, and several things happened at once. The first was that with the purple visor no longer obscuring his vision, and the pain of his injuries sobering him some, Felton saw the girl for the first time. Truely saw her. She was older now, but he remembered the color of her hair, thought some of it was now stained red with blood. And the patches of teal around her eyes, the small underlining slashes of white. He'd never seen any other female duck with those markings. "Celeste.." He muttered under his breath, horrified that after all these years, in seeking revenge, he had brought about the death of his only child.

He didn't have long to grieve . Roaring like a wounded bear, Negaduck was on his feet, his midnight eyes , black with fury as he struck again and again with the chainsaw, carving away chunks of black metal, an unstoppable force, driving his opponent back into the street. One solid slash took out the heavy duty tire and left the villain helpless on his back as it deflated.

"NO! Please, " Felton fell back, one hand extended imploring, all the bluster and bravado fled from him at the drawing realization of what he had done, "Lord Negaduck, don't…don't …"

Misunderstanding, thinking his enemy had been reduced to blubbering for mercy, Negaduck paused, letting the chainsaw idle and grind to a halt. Felton breathed a shaky sigh of relief, "Thank you..." His gratitude was short lived.

The black masked mallard coldly withdrew a pack of dynamite, breaking the sticks apart from the bundle and lighting them one by one before he shoved them in cracks in the now ruined armor super suit.

Destructoduck gulped, now sparking like a child's birthday cake as he looked down at the numerous explosives. The first three blew him sky high, arching through the darkness like a shooting star before he erupted in a Fourth of July display far above the city.

Negaduck grunted his satisfaction, watching as the burning mass plummeted down towards the polluted bay and vanished with a sizable splash. He hoped the sharks were good and hungry as he turned and limped back into the house as quickly as he could.

Celeste remained where he'd left her, motionless, blood seeping from a location hidden by her hair. He dropped to his knees and drew her into his arms as her eyes flickered open and she gazed up at his silhouette back-lighted by the dying fires. "Daddy?" She whimpered.

He found even with all the bitterness in his shrunken heart, he couldn't find himself to deny her any comfort by correcting her. Vivid memories flashed before his eyes of another small child flinging himself on the back of an attacker, someone he had once loved, once idolized, in a vain attempt to save the most precious person on earth to him. That child had wound up bloodied and beaten as well, barely clinging to life, and he felt a lump rise in his throat as acid burned the back of his eyes. "Yeah, sure, kiddo, I'm here. Don't try to talk, just rest, yer safe now. Yer safe."

She smiled weakly, her hazel eyes half-lidded as the trail of blood crept down into one of them, "Did I do good?"

He snorted, forcing a confident grin, "Are you kidding? That metal-plated moron had no clue what hit him. You did real good, Cel. If I ever needed anyone to watch my back, it'd be you." He used the corner of his cape to dab the blood out of her eyes.

Her smile widened then softened as she went slack in his arms. No. This couldn't happen again. Not again. He couldn't bear to see another innocent die in his defense, someone who had no reason to love him but was willing to give up their life for him. Not again. Ignoring the red hot jolts of pain it sent down his sides, he hefted the small child, cradling her in his arms, and rushed to the Troublemaker.

There was a medic, an unofficial doctor who catered to the low-lifes and criminal elements of the city for an exorbitant fee, no questions asked. He had rarely required her services before, but now he did as he could see the color fading from Celeste's face and the life with it. He would run every red light, break every speed limit, and shill out every dime he could steal to save one life, just one. As he placed her gently in the sidecar of the troublemaker, he silently thought an unconscious prayer, the first he was aware or unaware of in many years, that he wasn't too late.

Viscera ran her establishment in what had once been the ritzy part of town, and could well afford it. In fact her office was not far from what had once been Mallard Industries, and Negaduck had been a client of hers long enough to know his way around the place. He parked in the back , well out of sight of the street, and barged into her office after entering a code at the door.

"'Cera!" he barked, storming past a waiting room full of shady looking hoodlums, straight into the back of her surgical suite where the tall yellow feathered goose was putting an intricate pattern of stitches into the brow of a ferret with one eye swollen shut.

"Lord Negaduck," the woman responded with a hint of amused familiarity underlying her tone of respect," even you know I request that patients wait for me to finish with my current client before jumping line..."

"This can't wait," he stated bluntly, even not, stricken by the differences between her and her Normalverse counterpart. The version of her from Darkwing's world was an infuriating mixture of profound intelligence and utter stupidity that had floored him on more than one occasion on his intrusions into S.H.U.S.H. When he'd encountered her. She never failed to jabber his ear off with inane scientific babble.

By contrast, Viscera was relatively silent for the most part, and when she spoke, it was a sharp barb or sarcasm interjected here or there quite often. Her plumage, under all the ink she had imposed upon her personage, was yellow, her dark ebony hair was cropped short, almost butch. She wore fashionable triangular glasses with a slight reddish tint to them as opposed to large round ones. Most notably , the intricate series of oriental full sleeve tattoos that started at her finger tips ran all the way up to cover the left side of her face. He didn't know for sure as they had never been intimate in that manner, though she had seen him near enough to naked more than a few times and was well acquainted with several of his internal organs and bones, but he suspected the tattoos ran the full length of her body and even covered more private places. Most of all, he knew better than to offend her by ever calling her "Sara Bellum", and stuck to her preferred monicker. A good, discreet physician , all be it one who had had her medical license stripped, was hard to come by. Much less one he actually trusted.

He lead her out to the Troublemaker and she grimaced in distaste , " Geeze, Negs I thought you told me you despised people that hurt children."

" Spare me the lecture. This wasn't my handy work. Look how sloppy the cuts and bruises are. If had been me, she would have diced into salami and puréed in a blender. This was Destructoduck . Can you patch her up, or not? She's in rough shape..."

She shook her head, crossing her arms," I don't work on kids. I specialize in criminals for a reason, and that reason is if they die, I still get paid upfront and no one much misses them. Kids are another story. Where are her parents?"

"She's an orphan."

"Oh God, really?" Viscera rolled her eyes and rubbed the tips of her right thumb , index and middle finger together," You see this? This is me playing the world's smallest violen. Are you going to cover the costs?"

He hesitated, realizing he could just walk away and let the girl die. Couldn't he? That's what anyone else would expect of him. Instead he pulled out his wallet which was attached to his yellow coat with a thick barbed chain and fished out a handful of hundred dollar bills. Easy come, easy go, he thought. He could always rob another bank.

They loaded Celeste onto a stretcher and carried her inside the facility. Viscera cut the torn remainders of her clothing off and set about hooking up a blood transfusion and an IV bag, then zoned out into her own inner universe, her deft hands cutting, repairing, and stitching wounds back together, repairing damage that should have been fatal, shaving off. Bits of auburn curls and feathered that floated to the ground like mots of dust. She talked while she worked, informing him the girl had swelling on her brain from the blow that needed to be relieved and he would have to step out while she worked for sterilities sake. He grumbled but didn't argue. His own wounds were apinging him too much.

As he sat outside the surgery, Negaduck found himself thinking how moronic her employers at St. Canard Mercy Hospital had been to let her go, but there were rumors she had been dabbling in questionable operations. Regardless, he had never seen a surgeon with her confidence and skill anywhere else.

Hours later when she had finished, she brought him back in and gestured for him to sit in the chair with his back to her,"let's have a look at you now. I can see the holes in your cape. It looks like Swiss cheese."

He grumbled but obligingly stood up from the bench where he'd begun to doze off and sat down, removing his suit jacket, cape, and red turtleneck off, somewhat reluctantly grateful, as Viscera stood behind him, holding a flashlight on one spot, then the next, examining the wounds after she removed Celeste's inexpertly applied bandages.

"Oww! Watch it! That hurts," he snarled, shooting a glare over his shoulder at her. Anyone else would be breathing out of an extra nostril in their forehead by now.

She continued to pick at the wounds, ignoring him, "Some of these don't appear to be bullets. Too deeply imbedded to be a tranquilizer dart..."

"Also: not tranquil,"Negaduck griped moodily, his eyes narrowed, his folded arms rested on the back of the chair, his chin resting on his forearms.

"The kid pulled the bullets out, right? She did a decent job, but this is lodged like a tick. Also there seems to be some sort of illumination emanating from it. Blinking. Like a Christmas Tree light."

"'Cera, I don't care if it's playing "Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast " on a stinking harmonica with accompaniment , just get it out of me," he spat, clenching his fists.

"There's a bottle of cognac in the drawer in front of you, grab that..."

"What, you gonna get snockered now?" He chuckled darkly.

"It's not for me, you great big dumb-dumb," she sighed loudly, all sense of formality and titles forgotten for the moment , pulling on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, " If I'm going to operate on you, I want you anesthetized. This'll take some time, and by my best guess, time is something were limited on...because this little blue blinking light is a tracer, of the S.H.U.S.H. Variety."

Negaduck whirled to face her, his midnight bale eyes widening with a dawning realization. "You're saying it's sending out a signal, and *HE* can follow it here?"

"I'm saying *HE* is probably already on *HIS* way, " she replied grimly, fully aware of exactly who and what kind of Hell was about to descend on her establishment.

An agitated and semi irate Negaduck was now laying face down on Viscera's table, a semi-empty bottle of Cognac in his hand. Any buzz he might have had been properly disbursed by the thought circulating in his head. Agent Jake Mallard was on his way here, could be here any moment and all he had at his disposal was the gun that Viscera kept on hand for protection. To top it off, he was in no condition to fight, despite his aggression and every desire to do so. He had lost a lot of blood, and he was feeling his wounds, adrenaline aside.

Negaduck hadn't risen to the top of the heap and become unquestionable Lord of the Negaverse by being stupid. True, he could be reckless, but only when the odds were in his favor, and now they were decidedly not. He was backed into a corner and definitely about to be outnumbered, since Jake Mallard would not be arriving without an entourage of back up muscle.

Deftly and without concern for his comfort, Viscera extracted the blinking blue beacon (an alliteration not unworthy of his do gooding double, Darkwing Duck, Negaduck mused with a sneer) and put it on the tray by her bloody scalpel.

"So what now, do we flush it down the toilet and hope it sends him on a wild goose chase to the water filtration and sewer plant?" He asked, amused, despite the situation, by the idea of Jake slogging through waste up to his chest in one of his fancy million dollar suits, searching for the beacon.

"That would be ideal, but the toilets backed up so instead..." She placed the beacon inside the the chamber of her dated cat scan machine and switched it on. The little tracer's neon blue light burned intensely, then seemingly exploded in a bright flash, like a tiny supernova, radiating outward before it vanished.

Negaduck made a face, shielding his eyes,"Should I ask how much radiation you just exposed us to and whether I'm going to grow a second head?"

She snorted,"That's the least of your worries right now." She stated, crouching down and feeling along the floor. Suddenly there was a click and she popped one of the tiles out of the floor, revealing a small hidden compartment under the floor,"If M'Lord would be so kind to get your ass down there. Quickly , if possible."

He rolled his eyes and eased himself into the hole, holding his arms up to accept Celeste's sleeping form as Viscera passed the girl down to him, mindful of her head. The little girl made a faint whimper and he readjusted her in his arms as the doctor put a finger to her lips and passed him the hand gun.

"Try to keep her quiet. If they find you, there's four rounds in that. Come out blasting and try to make every shot count. Otherwise, just sit tight and let me handle it."

Negaduck ground his teeth at being forced into hiding like some scared little rabbit with a fox sniffing at his warren. Yes, true, he was injured, but he had had worse. The greatest inconvenience was that he head to access to his arsenal of weaponry, not even a. Bomb or a chainsaw, just the insignificant browning that felt like a puny purse gun in his hand, though he was vaguely touched that Viscera felt enough fondness for him to hand over her only weapon.

The truth was, he had made a vow to hunt his father down , a solemn promise, and he wouldn't risk being taken out before he could complete it. Though he didn't possess a death wish, at least not unless he could go out in a full on apocalyptic world devastating blaze of glory, he was more than willing to die if he could take his father with him. But the old man would no doubt be wearing a bullet proof vest and with only four rounds and the old man's borderline unbelievable luck, he councils himself that now was not the time to try and kill the bastard. No, he wanted to do it slowly, and savor it.

There was a loud, thundering knock, which was followed shortly by two burly suit clad agents of S.H.U.S.H. breaking down her doors and stormed into her surgical room, contaminating the sterile environment as they ripped storage closets apart and even overturned her heavy cat scan machine in a through but utterly brutal search of the room.

As they continued their rampage, a tall, impeccably dressed mallard in a tailor made suit stepped into the surgery, his icy green eyes , the distinct color of northern Arctic submerged ice, casually sweeping over the room, missing no detail, no matter how insignificant, "Doctor Bellum...oh, forgive me, it's no longer Doctor, is it? You've been barred from practice. How peculiar to find you here, engaged in what must then be considered...illegal medical practice..."

Agent Jake Mallard traced a finger along the blade of a scalpel, bringing the fresh blood in front of his eyes and nodding slowly , " and quite recently too, considering how fresh this is."

Everything in Negaduck smoldered like a dormant volcano awoken and ready to erupt. Even before the older man had spoken, he had sensed his presence, felt it as fully as he did the child in his arms. It was a tangible thing, a pricking of the short feathers on the back of his neck. After all these years he still remembered the sound of his father's footsteps.

Almost exactly ten years ago, they'd had their first fateful reunion when Negaduck had discovered the portal to the so called Normalverse in his former teenage place of employment, some sort of forgotten spell gone wrong and left to linger when the bakery closed down. He had promptly taken the other St. Canard City Hall hostage, and who else had come riding in like the cavelry, but his detested double, Darkwing Duck. And then, as if his day couldn't have gotten worse, like a waking nightmare, there was Jake, on behalf of S.H.U.S.H., back to haunt his son with his continued survival.

Despite being able to ambush and take Jake captive, he had ultimately escaped, and thus the game had truly begun, each hunting the other relentlessly, living to send the other man screaming into the fiery depths of Hell.

"In truth, it's worked out very well. I get to pick and choose the clients I wish to serve, and I keep my own hours. Which is why I'll have to ask you to leave," she replied steadily, her dark brown eyes locked unflinchingly with Jake's green ones.

He just smiled coldly,"You know I work quit extensively with your doppelgänger in the other universe at S.H.U.S.H. She's much prettier than you, she actually looks like a woman, but she's just as stupid when it comes to minding her tongue and looking out for her own best interest." He captured her beak. In his hand, forcing her to stay where she was, locked in his gaze,"I know he's here, or he just was. Your precious Lord Negaduck. You're one of the ones that's actually profited from his reign, so it doesn't surprise me in the least you'd support him...that is his blood, isn't it?"

She abruptly spat in his face. He released her and recoiled, s owning as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his face, "You're exactly the sort he'd associate with. Common, vulgar, violent filth not fit to live among law abiding citizens."

As he spoke, one of the agents accompanying him, a large candid, drew his gun and pistol-whipped her across the face hard enough to split her lip then put the gun to her temple.

"Agent Hoffman," Agent Mallard stopped the big bulldog before he could land another blow on her face or pull the trigger, regaining his composure, "Enough of that. We're S.H.U.S.H. Agents, not barbarians. We do not go around attacking and killing unarmed women...at very least not unless it's under orders, or we have something to gain from the situation."

He smirked, shooting Viscera his most charming look, " And if we can't all be reasonable and must resort to violence, well, shame that that is..." He suddenly seized the bloody scalpel from the surgical tray and drove it into her her hand which been creeping across the counter behind her towards a full and menacing looking syringe she no doubt had meant to stab him with.

The woman let out a cry of surprise and pain as Jake calmly twisted the blade, digging it deep through bone and flesh into the counter underneath. When she tried to pulled away he withdrew the scalpel but seized her hand, twisting it in his own firm grasp, watching her collapse to her knees as the bones in her hand were all but crushed.

Below them, watching with shock and turmoil, Negaduck bit back a shout of anger then flinched and wiped his face with his cape as blood dripped down between the tiles into his eyes.

"They call you Viscera, do they not?" Jake smirked as he leaned down, eye level with her, still crushing and twisting her fragile, skilled hand in his firm grip. "Keep this in mind, young lady. If you continue to interfere with my plans by aiding the likes of Negaduck, I will personally ensure you make the acquaintance of your namesake by extracting them from you while you're fully alive and concious." He gave her wrist a savage twist and she hissed in pain, taking some small satisfaction from the feeling of of small metacarpals grinding together in his grasp before he stood up and wiped the blood on the edge of her white coat, the only thing she had left of her professional career.

He glanced around casually, as if this had all been as relaxing as a stroll through the park, "Do you hear me , boy? I'm quite sure you're close enough, and yet you're still hiding like a coward. I thought I taught you better than that, to let others suffer in your place instead of being a man and accepting the consequences for what you've done. This is just the beginning, and I'll go through every man, woman, or child that shelters you. It's only a matter of time...before I finish what I started..."

Negaduck gritted his teeth so hard they seemed ready to shatter as he clutched the unconscious, shivering little girl closer to his side. It took all his restraint not to surge up out of the trap door and attack the older mallard as he stood there so smuggly, taunting him with every breath he drew. He had to remind himself he'd never get a shot off with enough accuracy to kill him, and the two muscle bound morons would rip him apart before he could try again. They'd kill Viscera too. And Celeste.

At length Jake smirked then nodded to the two other Agents ,"Gentlemen...we're finished here. For now." Retrieving the broken beacon from the cat scan, he and the others departed.

Viscera stayed where she was, her breath labored from pain for several long moments before she stood up, stepping back to trigger the hidden latches that released the panel and allowed him to climb up, passing Celeste off too her in the process. The girl uttered a soft little moan as the doctor cradled her in her arms and when she grasp Negaduck's shaking hand to pull him up, his palm came away sticky with fresh blood.

"'Cera..." He started, unsure of what to say as he accepted Celeste when she was handed her back to him.

"There's a fold out futon couch in my back office, let's put her down there for the night. You'll have to share it, but it's best you stay a few hours I case he left one of his goons out there watching.

"'Cera, your hand..."

"Drake!" She cut him off, an edge of steel in her voice, and his eyes widened in surprise. Not because of the fierce tone she'd used with him, not because of the look of anger in her dark eyes, but because of the fact that she had used his given name. A name he had renounced years ago. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. She knew every scar on him, knew his blood type, his average pulse rate, his finger prints, ofcourse she would know his true name whether he acknowledged it or not. But she'd never used it before, not once in all the time they'd known each other.

He would have never allowed her to use it. But now she had, as point of garnering his absolute attention, which she had as she resolutely wrapped her own hand in a stabilizing bandage, securing her wrist. "Just this once...I'm thinking of a different kind of payment. Someday very soon, you're going to cut his throat, and when you do, I want just one thing. Before he dies choking on his own blood, remind him of this, remind him of me, so when he's burning in Hell agonizing over everything he's ever done, one of the little details that eat at him will be my face."

He smiled coldly, darkly, with much bitter satisfaction as the mental image she'd instilled in him soothed the darkness in his soul for a moment,"Oh yeah, you can count on it."

She matched his unpleasant smile with one of her own,"Good. Thank you...Lord Negaduck,"Just as suddenly as if she had drawn a curtain over her true feelings, the look vanished and she inclined her head slightly, leading him back to the office where she pulled out the futon bed so he could deposit Celeste on it, gently, with more care than he usually saw her giving her patients, tucking the girls injured head up on a pillow and draping a blanket over her.

Negaduck grimaced as he glanced around, but in all honestly, for its Spartan nature, the room was almost as clean as the surgical suite, and far more so than his own home. He gingerly, fully aware of his back, and the fresh sutures in it, lay down on the opposite side of the bed as the doctor turned the lights off and left to sleep in a chair in the waiting room.

His pulse was still racing, and he had all but made up his mind that nothing would help him to sleep when Celeste suddenly rolled over and curled against him, her face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, her small

Hands entwining into his cape and coat. He blinked, staring at her slowly relaxing face in the dim light from the full moon and the city streets spilling in through the offices single window and venation blinds. Somehow, holding her, he felt a warmth in his heart and his blue gaze softened as he tucked a corner of his cape around her and closed his eyes.

"Celeste!"

The young duck looked up as Negaduck entered, her eyes lighting up and she jumped up off the bed she'd been laying on, reading a tattered paperback book with Turnip tucked under one arm. The bandage around her head had just come off yesterday although the fresh pink scar was plainly visible through the prickles of new hair growing back around it.

Negaduck frowned slightly, still unaccustomed to the sudden and boundless replays of affection, much less her hug rumbling his freshly pressed yellow suit but he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder none the less,"C'mon kiddo, it's time."

Her smile faded and she hung her head but nodded and didn't object as she followed him back out to the garage, climbing into the Troublemaker, holding the plush toy against her stomach.

The next day after taking her to Viscera's, he had gone back to assess the damage to the house while she was sleeping and found the tattered anteater, singed but still in one piece, amount the ashes. It looked like such a flea infested hazard he had been tempted to throw it in the trash, but instead, for whatever reason, he had picked it up and taken it to his own personal tailor whom did the alterations and fitting on his costumes. The peacock had looked at him in confusion but obediantly set about patching the worn holes in the toys fur with various patterns and silky materials including some scraps left over from one of Negaduck's own capes.

When he had returned to check on the girl and presented it to her, her hazel eyes had lit up and she had half choked him to death in a quack fu grip hug that made his eyes bug out. He'd muttered that it was even more ugly now than it had been, but secretly when he'd turned away, he'd been hiding a small smile.

Now Negaduck glanced over at her solemn, heartbroken expression and hesitated , his gaze lifting to Viscera, who stood in the doorway watching him , her back leaned against the doorframe where the S.H.U.S.H. Agents had torn the door from its hinges, her eyebrows arched in a skeptical, judging manner. He felt his face grow warm then abruptly scowled in annoyance and gunned the engines, driving purposefully toward the orphanage.

The criminal overlord's black cape whipped in the wind as he took sharp turns, refusing to look at the pitiful little orphan at his side. Even if he'd ever considered keeping her, how could he now in good conscience do that now, with Jakes threat hanging over his head? No, like it or not, she was after in the damn system.

He swing himself off his motorcycle before the engine had even cooled, marchinginto the dilapidated orphanage with Celeste in tow, still not gracing her with a look he set his eyes the matriarch's desk at the far side of the front office. He had once sworn the only reason he would ever return here would be to burn this building to the ground. It felt odd and a bit nauseating, being back.

Celeste herself looked forlorn and small in the ancient room, wringing her hands and staring studiously at the floor. Negaduck's promise of one night had turned into almost a month of her staying at Viscera's under his supervision (when he was not out running the Negaverse and keeping its residents in line) during her recovery, during which, despite his objections that she was to rest, she'd insisted on sneaking in a few minor chores like helping clean up after surgeries and helping Viscera by grabbing tools for her as her hand healed. It had been a strange time of adjustment for both of them but she could honestly say she'd never enjoyed any time in her life more. It was almost like actually having a real family, however dysfunctional, but all good things had to come to an end.

Grimacing as she lifted her head slightly to look at him with tearful eyes, the Lord of the Negaverse pulled at the collar of his red turtleneck then put on an expressionless face and stalked up to the desk, placing both his hands on it and leaning forward, his voice menacingly calm, "Hello...Mrs. Blackclaw..."

"Lord Negaduck..." she stammered, her mouth falling open as she dropped the pile of papers she'd been looking over. A series of unfortunate, abandoned faces ranging from two to thirteen stares up at him, grim black and white photos paper clipped to each file like mug shots. "Whatever brings you…?"

"I believe you know the young lady back there," he cut her off, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward Celeste, willing down the twinge of memory the files brought back to him. His file was still here somewhere, locked away in a dusty cabinet with those of the other damaged, implacable children.

"Oh, her, yes, a runaway," The old badger adjusted her glasses, pleased and relieved the matter was something she could rectify so easily. Though there was no way of her knowing that the Master of Menace himself had once been one of her charges, had in fact been skittish, abused, little Drake Mallard whom kept to himself and usually tucked himself away in the furthest corner of the room in a futile attempt to dodge beating, she was not so foolish as to believe that she held any favor with the darkly masked mallard who ruled the city. "Rest assured if she's bothered you she'll be punished."

Strangely, after so many days of restraining his temper, Negaduck felt it finally bubbling over. Or more accurately, erupting like Mount Vesuvius. He might not have been able to get revenge on his father...yet, but this was someone from his past he could put rather firmly in her place, and he was going to enjoy it immensely.

"No, you misunderstood me. YOU'RE the one that's bothering me. This little runaway's been staying with me, and she's gonna stay with me since you obviously couldn't care for a houseplant, much less a kid!" Snarled, his voice slowly rising in volume to a shout,"You got a problem with that?" he demanded in his lowest, most gravelly voice, shoving his beak in her face, his eyes flashing. The badger shook her head rapidly, leaning back in her chair so quickly she nearly up ended it. It might have been his imagination, but he though he saw a few more black hairs go white from fear and took some cruel amusement in the imagery. "Good." He straightened his coat and snapped his fingers, "My lawyers will see to drawing up and finalizing the paperwork."

As he spoke the two lawyers, aptly named Shyster and Loophole, stepped into the room and approached the desk, all business as they snapped open their briefcases and set upon the orphanage's proprietor like vultures on fresh road kill.

Satisfied, Negaduck whirled, the black cape flaring out dramatically behind him as he walked over to Celeste and put a hand on her shoulder, "C'mon, kiddo. Let's blow this joint."

She stared up at him, flabbergasted. So much was running through her head all at once, so many thoughts spinning rapidly through her mind. All she could think of, which really wasn't the most pressing matter to ask, was , "When did you call your lawyers? How did they get here so fast?"

He shrugged, a sly smirk forming on his face,"Before I came to pick you up. I told them to be waiting here for me. They knew better than to ask any stupid questions, and I pay them well enough to jump when I say, and antagonize them enough with weapons of mass destruction for them to know what would happen to them if THEY didn't jump like trained circus tigers when I crack the whip."

He paused at her stunned expression," I guess you'll have to get used to my lifestyle after all, short stuff. No more cushy orphanage with its nice safe routines. Sorry to disappoint you, but now you're stuck with me." He grinned deviously at her, then turned and walked out of the building, brush off his smart yellow suit jacket as if this were just another piece of business concluded to satisfaction.

Could it really be true? Could he want her, could anyone truly want her forever? She'd all but given up hope, but here was a man who needed her as deeply as she needed him. On the outside, they seemed as different as could be but on the inside they were both damaged, broken, half of a whole person needing one another to feel complete.

Tears spilled from her eyes as she tackled him from behind as he defended the steps, knocking him flat on his back with an "oof!" as her arms clenched around his waist and clung to him like the light in the darkness he'd become to her. This time he actually allowed himself to smile as he hugged her back, chuckling a bit at the way her bright eyes sparkled as she replied in a soft voice, full of meaning, "Sounds good. Let's go home...Dad."


End file.
